Animus
by isolde13
Summary: Harry defeated Voldemort. But he did not leave the final battle unscathed. Into his life comes Draco, who's been working as a prostitute in Muggle London...
1. Default Chapter

  


Animus (Part 1)

  
  


My name is Harry Potter and I am a war hero. 

  


Actually that's not quite right. There are hundreds of war heroes; wizards and witches that fought so bravely in the war and sacrificed so much. No, there are hundreds of war heroes. I am, however, _the_ war hero. 

  


I am the one who defeated Voldemort - as it was destined to be. Well, it was either him or me. One of was going to die. I sure as hell didn't want to be the one to go. Life, no matter how much it sucks, is very hard to let go of. We waged our final battle, just him and I, in a lonely cottage just outside of Hogwarts. While the war raged outside, we fought against each other for what seemed like hours. By the end we were both exhausted and our magic nearly depleted. 

  


Few people believe me when I tell them this, so I have simply stopped saying it. But I'll say it now. I did not defeat Voldemort with the killing curse or any other magical means. I strangled him to death. I killed him with my own bare hands. 

  


What can I say? Sometimes the Muggle way really is best.

  


His death was the beginning of the end for the dark side. After that the tide turned and victory came easily. The enemy was defeated and the wizarding world began to rebuild and heal.

  


And to think that all of that happened in my seventh year of school. I was seventeen then. 

  


That was two years ago, although sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago. Then again, sometimes it seems as if it all happened yesterday. But whether the memories are old and stale or fresh and piercing, they always seem to hurt. Always. 

  


But enough of that, you're probably wondering what I've been doing with myself the past two years. Well, I work at the Ministry of Magic now. I have an office job; a desk job, which is exactly what I need right now. I need some measure of peace in my life now that I've finally gotten over my hero complex. 

  


When I'm not at the office, most of my free time is spent hanging out where the Muggles do, although I do stay in close contact with Ron and Hermione and the others from Hogwarts that survived the war. Why Muggles, you may ask? Simple. Because they don't know me from Adam. They don't scream when they see me and wrap their arms me as if they know me. They don't look at me as if I were some god come down from the sky. Muggles give me the thing I crave the most - anonymity. 

  


That's what I'm doing tonight; enjoying anonymity with the Muggles. Driving down what is considered to be a really bad neighborhood actually. A neighborhood filled with incredibly sleazy pubs and x-rated cinemas and people who sell themselves for money. 

  


Tonight I'm just driving through and looking for a place to have a drink. I am not looking at these young people and wondering what it would be like to have them in my bed. 

  


I am not. 

  


I turn a corner and find myself cruising down a street where there are more male prostitutes than females. They are all so young; just boys really. Sad when you take a minute to think about it. But then again, so much of life is sad, isn't it? 

  


My eyes flick across the dark of the street, looking for a suitable place to stop when I see him. The startling feeling of familiarity hits me hard and I swear that my heart stops. 

  


He's thin and blond and is wearing black trousers that are either vinyl or leather, I can't really be sure from this distance. Whatever they are, they're tight. A silver mesh top that only covers half his chest completes the outfit. He looks like a whore. One among many. But there is something about him that stands out. It's hard to pinpoint what it is but it's there. Something about the way he stands, the way he tilts his head. Almost as if he were better than everyone that surrounds him.

  


Suddenly frantic to see this one up close, I pull into the closest parking lot I can find. I barely register that it's a porno mag shop. Instead I drive into the first empty space I find and violently put the car in park. I get out quickly, slamming the door in my haste. 

  


I begin to walk towards him, zeroing in on him as if he were a beacon in this darkness. Yes, so familiar, but I do not allow myself to believe it is him. Not until I can see his face. 

  


A car stops next to him and he saunters over to it, leaning casually towards its window. 

  


'Don't go in, Don't go in,' I plead silently. If he goes in that car, I won't know if it's really him. 

  


But he doesn't get in the car. He straightens and steps back and the car pulls away. I put on an extra burst of speed and reach him quickly. I am no more than ten feet away from him now. His face is turned the other way, perhaps searching for another car, another possible customer. 

  


"Malfoy?" I whisper tentatively. 

  


He turns his head towards me slowly and I can finally see his face. My heart stops for the second time tonight. There is no mistaking it. It is Draco Malfoy.

  


His eyes are wide with surprise and a touch of fear. Then they see me, recognize me, and that look is replaced by one of disbelief. Then, his face seems to morph and his emotions are closed to me. Just that quickly, the mask is in place. He groans slightly and says, "Gods, not you." 

  


The hatred that surges through my body at the sound of his voice causes my heart to start beating again. "Good to see you too, Malfoy," I say dryly. 

  


He looks away from me and mumbles, "This can't be happening," under his breath. 

  


I take a step towards him. My tone is hard and vicious when I speak. "So this is what became of you after the war. You turned into a whore." 

  


And I _had_ wondered. With his father in Azkhaban and his family fortune and lands commandeered by the Ministry, I had often wondered what had become of my old nemesis. 

  


He turns to me again. "Sod off, Potter." 

  


I take another step towards him. We are very close now. "I never thought I'd see the day. What would your mother say?" 

  


"I said sod off, Potter," he repeats, the emphasis on the curse words heavy. 

  


He's about to walk away - not that I'll let him, I'm not done - when a thought seems to occur to him. He looks at me with that shrewd gaze of his. "Wait a minute. What the hell are _you_ doing down here? Is this what the great Harry Potter does after the war? Troll the streets looking for young boys? Is the great war hero a pedophile?" 

  


The words sting, but not enough to cause me to react. I have long ago stopped worrying about what people think of me. Especially trash like Malfoy. 

  


"Think what you want, Malfoy. At least I'm not the one selling myself for a few measly pounds. Or are you even worth that much?" 

  


He looks at me for a long moment, as if he has some brutally scathing remark to say, but then he drops his gaze and turns. "As wonderful as this reunion has been, I have to go Potter. As always, it has been a pleasure." 

  


Before I realize that I'm doing it, I reach out and grab his wrist. I grab it hard, trying to bruise it. He stops and looks at my face and then at the hand on his skin. "Let go of me," he says. 

  


Apparently I've made him angry. How lovely.

  


"No," I say. I am really enjoying this far too much; this childish little game.

  


And then his tone completely changes. I no longer hear anger in his voice, now I hear a sort of desperation that I never thought I'd hear from this person. 

  


"Potter, I have things to do. I can't just stand here all night."

  


And that's what does it. That tinge of desperation in his voice mixes with my hatred of him and I suddenly realize that I don't want this to end here; that I'm not ready to just let him walk out of my life. 

  


"Wait," I say. "Don't go yet." 

  


He tries to pull out of my grip, but I'm strong and I'm holding on tightly. 

  


"How much do you charge for a night?" I ask. 

  


He stops moving and stares at me in amazement, as if he can't believe that he heard correctly. "What?" 

  


"How much. Fifty?" 

  


He shakes his head and tries to pull away again. "What? No...get off me."

  


"I'll pay you. I'll pay you five thousand pounds. But not for one night. Longer. I want you for longer." 

  


"No!" he yells as he finally manages to yank his wrist from my grip. "No fucking way am I letting you touch me." 

  


My mind is working overtime now, trying to think of what I can say that will make him agree. I don't have time to wonder why I want him; I just know that I do. I can sort out that pesky little detail later. "Ten thousand pounds." 

  


He's still staring at me, and I can see something in his eyes that wasn't there before. He's struggling with it, struggling with my offer, tempted by the money. "Twelve thousand," I say. 

  


"That's a lot of money, Potter," he says slowly, carefully.

  


And it is really, but for me it's a drop in the bucket. Never let it be said that being the big war hero doesn't have it's advantages. 

  


I watch his face as he thinks it over. Knowing him as I do, he's probably weighing the pros and cons of the situation, looking at all the angles to see how this will best work to his advantage. Once a Slytherin...

  


"Twelve thousand pounds Malfoy, what do you say?"

  


"For how long?" he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

  


I take a minute to ponder the question. For how long? How long do I want this bastard in my life? How long do I want to own him, when I can barely stand to look at him? I finally come up with what sounds like a suitable answer. "A month," I say, wondering if he'll agree to it. 

  


He looks down at the ground, and then back up at me. He suddenly looks tired and he speaks hesitantly. "I...ummm...I have to clear it with somebody first. I can't just go away for a month. Let me check with him, and I'll..."

  


I almost laugh at how delicious this all is. Malfoy is embarrassed. He's embarrassed because he has to go ask his pimp if this is ok. I am starting to think that this is the best idea I've had in a long time. 

  


"Yes, you go check. I'll wait here. I'll give you thirty minutes, otherwise me and my twelve thousand pounds will go elsewhere." 

  


Undisguised hatred flares in his eyes for a brief moment, only to be quickly replaced by that embarrassed look again. Then he mutters something under his breath and walks away. 

  


I watch him go until he's swallowed up by the night, then I glance at my watch. What if he doesn't come back in thirty minutes? What do I do then? 

  


'You do nothing,' I tell myself. 'If he doesn't come back, then it wasn't mean to be. You've had a bit of fun humiliating him, so if he doesn't come back then you let it go.'

  


But he does come back. Even before the thirty minutes are up, he comes back. 

  


He stands in front of me, arms crossed in front of his body, chin jutting out ever so slightly. "All right, Potter. You have yourself a deal. One month." It looks as if it's killing him to say the words and it probably is. But pride is a funny thing. You can only hold on to it for so long in shitty situations and then you have to face reality. And reality is, twelve thousands pounds is a lot of money to a whore. 

  


So pride goes out the window. But his hatred of me doesn't. I can see it shining in his eyes. Which is exactly the way I want it, really. What's the fun if he's beaten and broken already? He wouldn't be Draco Malfoy if he wasn't a prick. 

  


I nod to show him that yes, we do have a deal. I refrain from shaking his hand over it though. Funny...I'm prepared to fuck him, but I won't shake his hand. 

  


This strikes me as infinitely amusing and I can't hold back a laugh. Malfoy looks at me as if I've gone insane, but says nothing. 

  


And all I can do is laugh and think that this is going to be a very interesting month. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: I feel as if I should make a quick apology. I have not done any research into British life for this story. Call me lazy or call my time limited - either way the result is the same. So I do apologize for any reality jarring that any of you may experience with this fic. 

  


P.S. I believe a pound equals out to about a dollar. Please, anyone, feel free to tell me if this is incorrect. 

  
  
  


Animus (Part 2)

  
  
  


I finally stop laughing and grab his arm. "Let's go." 

  


He looks startled but doesn't try to pull away. "Wait. I need time to pack. I need clothes..." 

  


I look him up and down, his tight pants - definitely vinyl not leather - the mesh shirt, black scruffy boots...and I see his point, but I really don't want to wait. I guess I don't want to give him a chance to change his mind. I begin to walk, still holding onto his arm. He has no choice but to move with me. 

  


"You won't need clothes where you're going," I say. 

  


"Potter, come on." 

  


I sigh, but I continue to walk, not even breaking my stride. "I'll _buy_ you some clothes, Malfoy. Right now I just want to get out of here."

  


He doesn't respond to this and we walk the remaining distance to my car in silence. When we reach it I let go of his arm and watch in satisfaction as he rubs it with a grimace. I hope I've bruised that as well.

  


I unlock the car and we both get in, I in the driver's seat and he in the passenger's. Then I grip the steering wheel and turn my head to look at him. He's staring straight ahead and from what I can tell by his profile, he has absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. I clear my throat loudly and he looks at me. He raises one eyebrow. "Yes?" he asks and in his voice I detect a mild amusement. 

  


That will not do. I don't want him amused by this situation. I cannot let him have the upper hand. Ever. 

  


"I thought that we should discuss the terms of our arrangement," I say, hoping that by reminding him that I'm essentially buying him, I can throw his equilibrium off. 

  


His head dips just a little bit in that genteel manner of his. Pompous bastard; he acts is if he were having high tea with the queen. "By all means, Potter." 

  


I nod. "All right. First of all, don't call me Potter. It just reminds me of the old days and makes me want to bash your face in." 

  


His famous composure falters at hearing my words. He looks surprised and maybe even a little bit afraid. I like to think it's fear that I see in his eyes, but truly I can't tell. 

  


"What would you like me to call you then?" he asks after a brief silence. "And if you say 'master', I swear this deal is off." 

  


Fine, master is out then...although that would have been nice. "Harry will do fine." 

  


He nods his head just once to show that he's accepted that term. "All right...Harry. What else?" 

  


I take a deep breath and try to think of everything I want. It's not like I was planning for this to happen, so I am not at all prepared. I start to say the first things that pop into my head. "For the entire month that you're with me, you stay either in my house or on my grounds. You go nowhere without me and you do not communicate with anyone. Understand?" 

  


"Fine." 

  


"I expect you to be at my beck and call. You're not my slave and I won't treat you as such, but you are my very own private prostitute. So, you will...ummm...service me...whenever I want, however I want. You get no say. Understood?" 

  


He swallows as if he were swallowing a particularly bitter pill. Oh wait, that's probably that nasty pride that he's forcing down his throat. "Understood," he says. 

  


"Good," I say. "I think that's it. Anything else we can deal with as it comes." 

  


I begin to turn away from him when he asks, "When do I get paid?" 

  


"What?"

  


"When do I get my money? _Harry_." 

  


I put the key in the ignition. "After the month is up. And don't worry Malfoy, you'll get it. I'm not a Slytherin. I won't try to cheat you."

  


He makes a small scoffing noise at that but says no more. 

  


Good. Because I really cannot wait to get out of here. 

  


Before I start the car though, I take another quick look at his face. There isn't much light, the moon and the streetlamps only provide so much, but I can clearly see that he is still beautiful. Despite the life he's living he is still beautiful. I had always thought it a great irony that someone that looked like an angel could be so hateful and cruel. And here we are two years later, and that irony is still present, still mocking me. 

  


I turn away from him and his pale beauty and start the car.

  


The drive to my house is spent in complete silence. Not surprising considering the circumstances. Small talk just doesn't fit a situation like this. I am forced to turn on the radio just to have something to listen to. 

  


Finally we reach my home, a two story Tudor just at the outskirts of London. It's nothing fancy really, but the eight rooms and two acres of land do afford me plenty of room and plenty of privacy. 

  


I park the car in the garage and we enter the house. Draco follows me like a silent wraith as we walk through the kitchen and into the living area. 

  


Once we're in the living area, I stop and turn around to face him. He has stopped as well; his arms are folded across his stomach and he's looking at me warily, as if he's unsure of what I'm going to do. Which is funny really, because _I'm_ unsure of what I'm going to do. I take a step towards him and reach out to him, still not quite sure what I intend to do when I touch him, when I notice that he's wearing makeup. Not too much of it, but he is most certainly wearing eyeliner and mascara. And there's also glitter in his gelled, spiky hair. All of this bothers me for some reason which I can't fully fathom and I drop my hand and step away from him. "There's a bathroom upstairs, third door on your right. Get in there and wash all that shit off your face and out of your hair." 

  


He looks at me as if he's been insulted by my comment. "People like this 'shit' as you refer to it." 

  


"Well I don't, so take it off." 

  


He rolls his eyes and shrugs and turns to go. I watch him walk up the stairs; that graceful catlike walk of his until I can no longer see him. I wait until I can hear the shower running before I move. Then I walk over to the bar in the corner of the room and pour a liberal amount of scotch into a glass. I drink it in two huge gulps, savoring the way the alcohol burns as it makes its way down my throat. 

  


Then I surprise myself by taking the glass and throwing it against the wall. It shatters and I pound the top of the bar in anger and frustration. What was I thinking, bringing him here? Why did I ever think that this was a good idea? Here I am, trying to move on with my life, forget the past and look towards the future and I have just brought a very big part of my past into my house. 

  


A very big, obnoxious, spoiled, heartless, part of my past into my life.

  


I don't even bother with the glass this time. I just grab the bottle of scotch and put it to my lips and drink. I take one huge swallow...two...three until I am so hot that I am almost sweating. I put the bottle down and savor the way the alcohol is starting to make everything just a little more mellow. 

  


And while it is a good feeling, it is not nearly enough. I pick up the bottle and begin to drink again. 

  


By the time I hear Malfoy's footfalls behind me, the bottle is almost completely empty. 

  


I turn around to see him standing in the middle of the living room, dressed only in the towel that is wrapped around his waist. His hair is wet and it seems to glisten, but not from glitter this time. This is his very own luster.

  


I put the bottle down and move towards him; sway towards him actually. I believe I have managed to get myself quite pissed. He just stands there, looking at me, arms crossed over his stomach in the universal gesture of self-protection. He actually looks very small to me despite this. Very small and vulnerable. For a moment, I feel pity, am shocked to find it there and discard it as quickly as I can. This person never once showed me an ounce of pity, or mercy or empathy, so he does not deserve it now. I reach out to grab his arm, to haul him upstairs to my room when I see it. For the first time tonight, I see the bruise that colors the side of his face. "Where did that come from?" I ask, and what I'm really wondering is _why didn't I see that before_?

  


He brings his hand up and touches his cheek, instantly knowing what I'm referring to. "I cover it with concealer, but it washed off in the shower." 

  


"Who did that to you?" 

  


He looks away from me, like he can't meet my eyes. I can see that the hand on his face is trembling, just a little. "One of my customers got...overzealous." He all but whispers it.

  


I stare at the bruise, at the marring of perfection and I feel that small twinge of pity again. But the pity is quickly replaced by anger. Anger at myself for feeling sorry for him, anger at him for causing me to feel anything but hatred for him. 

  


This time when I reach out my hand, it lands on his forearm and I begin to pull him. He, to his credit, does not struggle. I lead him up the stairs and into my room, then I push him away from me with undisguised violence. 

  


"Take off the towel and get on the bed," I order. 

  


And he does. He lets the towel drop to the floor and he climbs on the bed, settles back against it, his arms at his sides. 

  


And this is it. The moment has come. 

  


Am I really going to do this? I'm not even hard. I'm angry and more than a little drunk, but I'm not even close to being sexually excited. 

  


So what now? 

  


'Improvise, Harry," I tell myself. 'What would feel good right now?'

  


Good question. Easy enough answer. So I improvise. I take off my clothes and then I climb on the bed with him. Then I straddle his head and tell him to suck me. He opens his mouth and before I know it, I am being engulfed by him. I close my eyes and try not to think, try to just feel and before too long I am hard. 

  


And now I'm riding it, I'm lost in the moment and I know I can't wait much longer. I pull out of his mouth and move down his body til we are chest to chest, hip to hip. He opens his legs for me. How obliging. 

  


It takes me a couple of tries to enter him, but I finally do, and when I do its swift and hard. I ignore his sharp intake of breath. I don't care about his comfort. I don't care about him. All I care about is this now...this need...this power.

  


I begin to move back and forth, in and out, building a rhythm. This should feel good, he's tight and the scotch is blurring all the sharp edges of reality, but I can't really let go. Especially after I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. 

  


His eyes, so gray and deep, are looking into mine and I can see his loathing and disgust of me. 

  


And suddenly I can't look at those eyes anymore.

  


I pull out of him quickly and without warning. "I can't do this...like this," I manage to say. 

  


"What do you want me...?" he begins to ask, but I cut him off. 

  


"Turn over," I say, surprised at how harsh and ragged my voice sounds. 

  


He complies instantly, positioning himself so that his arms are above his head and his legs are wide open. My very own sacrifice. And I take my sacrifice. Once again I plunge inside of him, rocking back and forth in a brutal rhythm. 

  


I did not turn on the lights when we came in, so the only illumination in the room is the moonlight that streams through the windows. I look down at his body beneath me and my breath is stolen from me. His skin is so pale in the moonlight that he's almost luminescent. Otherworldly. 

  


Fey.

  


Beautiful. He is truly beautiful. 

  


I stare at his body, at his blond hair, now short against the nape of his neck, at the curve of his shoulder, his strong arms, his hands that are clenching and unclenching against the mattress.

  


And it is all very good, he feels good around me, he looks good underneath me, but it is not enough. It is not enough. And only when I lean forward and wrap my hand around his throat and squeeze slightly, only when my teeth break the tender skin of his shoulder, do I finally come. 

  


It is muted by the alcohol, but it is still intense; the release. 

  


Bittersweet release.

  


I roll away from him and lay on my side, trying to catch my breath, willing my heart to slow down. Draco does not move except to bring his legs together. 

  


Now if this were a romance novel, I would wrap my arms around him tell him how much I love him after such a great shag. But this is no romance novel. This is life and he is Draco Malfoy and I can no longer stand to have him near me. 

  


"Get out," I say. Merlin, I still can't catch my breath. 

  


"What?" he asks as he finally rolls over. 

  


"I said get out. There are two guest rooms across the hall. Find one for yourself although you can sleep in the damn kitchen for all I care. Just get the hell out of my room." 

  


I half expect him to pick up the towel and cover himself with it, but he doesn't. He just stands up and begins to walk towards the door. "So you're done with me for the night then? Am I dismissed?" he asks sarcastically. 

  


I ignore him. Just go away Malfoy. Go away or I'll kill you, agreement or no agreement. 

  


"Fine. I won't dirty up your room any longer," he says, and with that, he is gone. 

  


And just like that I am alone. Alone in the dark with nothing but my heartbeat and the quiet sounds of retching from across the hall to lull me to sleep.

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: Part three...wherein you will find that Harry continues to be not so nice, Malfoy is still beautiful and wounded and the author tries really hard to be better about her Britishisms by mostly avoiding them altogether. 

  
  


Animus (Part 3)

  
  
  


I wake up some time later to find that it is no longer night time and that I have an immense headache. 

  


I lift a hand and place it on my forehead as if that will somehow alleviate the pounding within my skull. It doesn't. Not at all. I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling through the spread of my fingertips. 

  


Another cloudy day...I can tell by the opaque light that I see above me. I stay in this position for a few minutes, willing the pain to settle down so that I can at least move. When I realize that it's pointless to wait and prolong the torture, I sigh audibly and force myself to sit up. Blinding pain shoots through my head and I have to suppress a groan.

  


Once the pain settles back into its more familiar throb, I glance down and notice that I've managed to fall asleep on top of the covers. This is nothing new for me. But the fact that I am completely naked is definitely outside of the norm. 

  


And it is at this moment when it happens. The memory of last night, which had been conveniently hiding somewhere behind the headache, comes rushing at me, so intense I almost fall back over. 

  


_Malfoy standing on a street corner...my offering him money to come stay with me...touching him...his mouth...his eyes...being inside of him..._

  


Oh gods...it all actually happened. All of it. Oh, if Ron and Hermione could see me now...they'd put me away in St. Mungo's for sure. I mean, they're always worrying about me anyway, but this...this is beyond what they'd be able to accept, for this they'd definitely think I've gone over the edge. 

  


Bloody hell, who am I kidding? I probably have. 

  


Well, insane or not, I can't stay up here forever. After all, this was all my idea. I'm the one who offered him the money and proposed the deal. It's time to go downstairs and see if young Master Malfoy is still here or if he's decided all this isn't worth the money and has run for the hills. 

  


I get up from the bed and wander into the bathroom, where I relieve myself and quickly down some hangover relief potion. I keep it in the bathroom so that it's close by if I ever need it. Not that I need it that often, really. 

  


Not really.

  


Afterwards, I grab a robe from my closet, wrap it around my body and prepare to see what the new day is going to bring. 

  


I have taken no more than two steps out of the room when I smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Ah, so he _is_ still here. 

  


I try to ready myself as best I can for this. What will I say to him? What does one say to someone from his past who he essentially detests but slept with anyway? Well, since there are no etiquette guidelines for this, I guess I'll have to improvise again. 

  


I follow the scent of coffee and poke my head into the kitchen. Ah, there he is. Sitting at my kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a mug of something so hot that it steams.

  


He looks up at me as I walk in. "Finally decided to get up?" 

  


Hmmm...so he's acting normal. Interesting. I ignore his question and ask one of my own. "You made coffee?" Of course I instantly regret asking that. Of course he made coffee; Christ could I sound any dumber? 

  


He shrugs. "I didn't think you'd mind." 

  


"I just never thought I'd see the day when you would understand how to operate a Muggle contraption, that's all." Good save, Harry, good save.

  


"I've been living among Muggles for almost a year now, Harry. One does pick things up."

  


I make a noncommital noise and walk over to the coffeepot, pour myself a cup, then sit across from him at the table. I look over at him and take in the fact that he's shirtless and wearing the black trousers from yesterday. He must see something in my eyes because he shrugs and says, "I told you I didn't have any other clothes." 

  


"We can go shopping later today for some."

  


He nods and looks away, staring at something on the counter. 

  


From this vantage point I can see very clearly the bite mark on his shoulder. 

  


_I did that to him._ _I marked him that way._

  


The thought is mildly unsettling, so I push it away.

  


As we continue just to sit, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settles in around us. I'm starting to wonder how often it will be uncomfortable like this; starting to wonder if the moments that I'm paying for will make up for moments like these. I stare down at my coffee cup as if it holds the answers. Surprise, surprise...it doesn't. 

  


I finally look back up to see that he's staring at his coffee cup also. I clear my throat to get his attention. "Well...ummm...Malfoy...you can have full run of the house while I'm gone...except for my room, of course. The place isn't all that big really, not like your old mansion, but I'm sure you can find something to entertain yourself with."

  


"You're leaving?" he asks. 

  


"Yeah," I say as I stand and pull the robe around myself a little more tightly. "I have to go to work."

  


He smirks slightly. "You go in to work at..." he glances at the clock on the wall, "11:30 in the morning?"

  


"Well, it's..." 

  


"Oh wait...I get it. The great Harry Potter can go in to work whenever he damn well pleases. Must be nice, Pot...Harry...making your own hours."

  


Ok, that hit a nerve. I'll admit it. And now I'm a little bit angry and it shows in my tone when I answer. "I don't have to justify anything to you Malfoy. Not a damn thing." 

  


He looks completely unfazed by my remark. "So what do you do now? You an Auror? Still fighting the good fight?" 

  


I should just slap him or walk away or something. I don't owe Malfoy anything, least of all an explanation, but for some inane reason, I find myself answering his questions. "I work at the Ministry." 

  


"Doing what?" Funny, he sounds genuinely interested.

  


"Not that it's any of your concern Malfoy, but I'm an administrative assistant at the Department of Magical Transportation."

  


"A desk job? You're a pencil pusher?" He is shocked, incredulous. 

  


Damn it, now he's judging me! He's actually sitting there in his 'fuck me' trousers and judging me. And now I'm pissed off. Now I'm very pissed off. "Do you really think you're in a position to judge my career choice...whore?" 

  


He attempts a smile, but it's so weak that it disappears instantly. Then he slumps against the chair as if someone had suddenly pulled all his bones out of his body. "That was a good one Harry." He shakes his head and looks away. "That one actually stung a bit." 

  


Hmmm...I've hurt him. And it's no surprise that it feels good. But it was also almost a little too easy. Would the old Draco Malfoy have folded so easily? 

  


Well, I don't have time to think about it right now. I do have a job to go to. I go upstairs without another word and shower and dress as quickly as I can. If I hurry, I can make it there by lunchtime and avoid my boss' reproachful looks. 

  


Once dressed, I disapparate to the office without so much as a goodbye to my houseguest.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Malfoy calling me a pencil pusher is a bit ironic actually, seeing as that's about all I've done all day. I've moved my quills around on my desk. I've moved parchment around...I even made a few attempts to do some actual work, but the truth is I just can't seem to concentrate on anything except the fact that Malfoy is in my house. As three o'clock rolls around, I finally decide to give in and go home. There's just no point in me being here any longer. Nothing is getting done.

  


I inform my boss that I'm leaving. He doesn't look surprised at all, just sighs and nods and waves me away. 

  


A moment later I apparate back home to find that the place is extraordinarily quiet. You would never know that someone else was here. I begin looking for Malfoy, room by room, starting on the first floor. I finally come across him in the library. He's curled up on the sofa, asleep, still wearing those ridiculous trousers. 

  


I walk to him and stand directly over him. And as I look down at him I find myself surprised at just how innocent and pure he looks when he's not awake and aware. Should I let him sleep for awhile? I mull it over in my head til I decide that I might as well wake him and get this over with. I shake his shoulder lightly and say his name. 

  


Nothing. 

  


I shake him again, this time a little harder. 

  


A low moan of protest, then nothing. 

  


Frustrated, I grab his shoulder and shake with much more force as I yell his name. 

  


This time, his eyes shoot open and he pulls away from me, cringing against the back of the sofa as if he could make himself disappear into it. He's yelling now too. "No! Stop! Please..." 

  


I was not expecting this. For a moment I am at a complete loss as to what to do. I crouch down so that our faces are level and I say, "Malfoy, it's me. Harry. Harry Potter." 

  


His eyes, which had been focused on something which I could never see, suddenly focus on me, and his body instantly relaxes. His breathing is heavy as he puts a hand up to his forehead. "It's just you..." 

  


I stand up slowly and step away from the sofa. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just thought we should get moving if we're going to get you some clothes." 

  


He drops his hand and looks up at me. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. What time is it?" 

  


"About three." 

  


"You go in at noon and you get to come back at three? Damn but you've got it made." 

  


I say, "Shut up, Malfoy," although my voice has no venom in it. Truth be told, I'm a little thrown off by what just happened. Malfoy's voice sounded so desperate; he was so truly afraid. Of what, I wonder. Or of whom?

  


He holds his hands up in surrender though he says nothing. 

  


"Let's just go," I say.

  


A short, bitter laugh comes from him as he stands. "You don't expect me to go like this, do you?" He crosses his arms in front of him and juts his chin out. "I won't." 

  


As if I would do that. That would humiliate us both. 

  


I tell him so and then tell him to follow me up the stairs. A few minutes later we are both dressed as Muggles (he in my borrowed clothing), and ready to go out into the world. 

  


The rest of the day crawls slowly by as we attempt to find suitable clothing for my "guest". When I thought up this agreement, the last thing on my mind was to spend social time together with this man and I want this over with as soon as possible. He, on the other hand, is enjoying himself immensely and seems to be prolonging this as long as he can by trying on every outfit in sight. 

  


Finally, finally, it ends and Malfoy has in his possession enough clothing to get him through the next twenty nine days and then some. 

  


What can I say; I was feeling generous. 

  


Our little excursion ends with a near silent dinner at an Italian restaurant on the way home. I briefly wonder what the waiter must think of us; what a couple we make, neither of us saying more than two words to the other the entire meal. 

  


Afterwards we get in the car and begin the drive back home. I'm about to turn on the radio in an effort to drown out the silence when Draco suddenly speaks. It startles me so much to hear his voice that I almost run off the road. After I straighten the car back out and my hearts stops trying to beat its way out of my chest, I ask, "What did you say?" 

  


"Jesus Harry," he says as he clutches at his own chest. "You trying to kill us both?" 

  


"I had forgotten you had vocal chords, Malfoy. What did you ask me?" 

  


"I just asked you why you worked at the Ministry, that's all." 

  


"It's a job. People have jobs," I say dryly. 

  


"But you obviously don't need it. Not if you can afford to throw out twelve thousand pounds as if it were nothing. I'm not blind Harry. You have a nice car, a nice house, nice things in your house. You just spent a lot of money on me without even twitching..." 

  


I sigh. "You're right, Malfoy, I don't really need the money. The job just gives me something to do. It beats laying around the house all day." 

  


"But why aren't you an Auror then? Or playing Quidditch somewhere and making even more money? Why this?" 

  


There it is again, that genuine curiosity. He really wants to know. 

  


And I really don't care to explain it to him. I grip the steering wheel tightly and mutter, "It's really none of your fucking business."

  


"All right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I was just trying to make conversation, that's all," he says as he turns to stare out the window 

  


God damn Malfoy. What's it to him anyway? Why does he care what I'm doing with my life? 

  


'Fuck him,' I think as push the conversation out of my head and try to concentrate on getting us back in one piece. 

  


Fuck him. 

Once we're safely back home, I begin to search for something to drink. I need something to help me unwind after the tenseness of the day. Do I have wine? That's what I had at dinner. Hard alcohol is usually my drink of choice, but one of the cardinal rules of drinking is that you're not supposed to mix. Ah, I do have wine. Pinot noir. Lovely. 

  


I uncork it, and as I begin to search for a wineglass I glance over at Malfoy. Odd...he's looking at me strangely. I wonder why. Maybe he wants some. Well, screw him, he doesn't get any. 

Feeling quite pleased with myself for being so selfish, I grab a wineglass, pour, and begin to sip.

  


"Harry?" he asks after a minute.

  


I look at him and wait. 

  


He rolls his eyes and sighs. "Do you mind if I go up to bed, or do you want...?" He leaves the question unfinished. 

Gods, how it must have hurt him to ask that. 

  


I nod. I do want. Not that I'm really in the mood; but I do want.

  


He sighs as if defeated, then looks to me to give him a sign as to what will happen next.

  


"Take off your clothes," I say. And while he does so, I drink my wine, refill my glass, drink some more. 

  


When he's naked, he just stands there, waiting. My turn. I set the wineglass down and it's instantly forgotten. I take off my clothes hastily, then move over to the sofa. I sit and beckon him to come to me. 

  


He does.

  


"Kneel," I whisper. 

  


And he does. 

  


"Do what you did last night. Get me ready." 

  


And he does. He leans forward and begins to lick me, suck me, almost tenderly at first. Then with more power, more expertise. I close my eyes and just let the sensations roll over me, through me. He is good at this; I can't deny that. But then again, I wouldn't want to. He is a very good whore.

  


I grab his hair and pull him away from me. He understands and stops, then looks up at me. And in his eyes, I see the same hatred from yesterday. Except this time, I see the hatred mingled with disgust and resignation and shame. It's funny, but I don't think I've ever noticed how expressive his eyes are before. They show me everything that's inside of him. 

  


I push myself off the couch and grab his hand to show him he's to stand also. Then I lay down on the floor, still holding his hand. "You're on top," I say. 

  


_Hatred...disgust...resignation...shame.._.all there again, flashing so bright in his eyes. 

  


He straddles my hips and begins to lower himself onto me. As I help guide him with my hands, I ignore the winces and the small gasps that indicate pain as he takes me inside.

  


"Close your eyes," I tell him. Like yesterday, I can't look at those eyes while this is happening.

  


He closes them, bites his lip and begins to move, impaling himself on me over and over again.

  


Things progress much as they did yesterday, he is tight around me, the friction feels good. His head is thrown back as he works, he is beautiful. 

  


But again, it is not quite enough. Almost, but not enough. 

  


I reach up towards that pale throat that he has so kindly exposed for me and wrap my hand around it. I squeeze, remembering the final battle and how my hands did the same thing then.

  


And I come so violently it almost hurts. 

  


It takes us both a minute to get our breathing back to normal. When we finally do, he makes as if to get up. I don't let him though. Instead I grab on to his hips and turn us over so that he is lying on his back and I am on top of him. I am still inside him, although I am shrinking fast. 

He stares at me, probably wondering what I'm going to do next. But all I do is wait.

  


"Harry?" he finally asks. 

  


I counter his query with one of my own. "Why do you hate me so much, Malfoy?" 

  


"What?" 

  


"Tell me why you hate me so much. Ever since our first year at school. Why did you do the things you did to me? To my friends?" 

  


He looks at me for a brief second, eyes searching mine, then he shakes his head violently. "No! You don't get to ask me that!" 

  


His hands are on my chest and they are pushing at me. 

  


"I just want to know!" I yell, suddenly angry.

  


"Get off of me!" he yells back, still pushing, now squirming and bucking underneath me.

  


"God damn it, Malfoy, just answer the fucking question!" 

  


He's still struggling, screaming at the top of his lungs now. "NO! You can buy me, you can fuck me, but you do NOT get to get inside my head! You didn't pay for that. You did not pay for that!" 

  


"Fine!" I scream back as I push myself off of him. "Fine, it was just a god damn question!"

  


He stands up quickly and grabs his clothing. "Go to hell, Harry!" 

  


Without even really realizing that I'm doing it, I grab him by his arms and pull him close to me. 

  


"I've already been there, Malfoy," I don't say it so much as growl it, and then I push him away from me as quickly as I brought him towards me. 

  


I turn away from him and stalk back towards the table that holds the wine. I grab the wine glass and throw it against the wall, watching as it shatters into pieces and red wine splashes everywhere. 

  


Hmmm...that's the second glass in as many nights, I'm on a roll.

  


Two seconds later I hear him going up the stairs, then slamming the door to his room. 

  


I don't turn around.

  


"Bastard," I mutter. I watch the red liquid trickle down my wall and I marvel at how much it resembles blood. Except that blood is much, much thicker. And warmer - blood is so very warm when it's fresh. 

  


Keeping an eye on the blood - no wine - on my wall, I lift the wine bottle and drink from it. It's empty before I know it, and in another fit of anger, I throw that against the wall as well. 

  


And then suddenly, it's gone. The anger is gone as quickly as it came, leaving me feeling drained and weary. 

  


This happens to me sometimes, emotions find me and then leave me so quickly that I can barely keep track of them, much less understand them.

I look at the glass all over the floor and decide to deal with the mess tomorrow. Then I grab my own clothes and practically drag myself up the stairs. 

  


Before I go to my room however, I stop just outside of Malfoy's. His door is partially open and I can hear slight whispering sounds coming from inside. Curious, I move closer, trying very hard to be completely silent so as to not be discovered.

  


Ah yes, Malfoy is talking. To himself apparently. I strain to hear. 

  


His words are coming quickly, and his voice...his voice sounds like he's on the very edge of crying.

  


"You can do this, Draco. You can do this. It's just a month. Just a month. You can do this..."

  


I listen to his words, spoken in a quick puffs of breath, and I'm reminded of the retching sounds from yesterday. 

  


I walk away from his door, no longer desiring to listen in on Malfoy's pain. 

  


Perhaps earlier tonight I would have gained some grim satisfaction from it, maybe even reveled in it. But now...now it just makes me feel so very tired. 

  


I crawl into bed and wrap the covers around myself tightly, ignoring the stickiness around my groin and thighs.

  


I fall asleep instantly.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes: I honestly cannot believe how well this has been received. To everyone who has taken the time to review - thank you so much. Your words mean more than you'll ever know. 

  


Just a quick FYI - this chapter is going to contain a lot of answers regarding Draco; though not all. So be prepared to find out what the hell is going on. 

  


Now a couple quick notes: 

  


To Shadafakup: Draco being on top doesn't mean that he was topping. Just think of when a woman's on top of a man. Harry still entered him.

  


To Me: Harry didn't want to keep Draco from prostituting himself. He needed some kind of closure with Draco, although he's not really sure what that closure is. He figured the easiest way to keep Draco around was to rent him...so to speak.

  
  
  
  
  


Animus (Part 4)

  
  
  


I wake up to find that this day is much like the one before. 

  


It's cloudy. 

  


I have a headache. 

  


I get up and walk to the bathroom where I relieve myself. 

  


I down some hangover potion.

  


And finally I make my way downstairs to the smell of coffee.

  


I see that Malfoy is in the kitchen again, drinking coffee in the exact same spot as yesterday. I get such a strong sense of deja vu that I start to feel like I'm drowning in it.

  


He looks up at me as I enter, pushes aside the coffee mug and stands up. 

  


All right, this is new. And so is the clothing. The Muggle jeans and gray t-shirt are a definite improvement over the vinyl. 

  


I notice that he looks edgy, nervous. "Harry, I'm glad you're up, I wanted to speak with you," he says. 

  


I cross my arms against my chest and lean against the counter. "So speak," I say coolly. 

  


He runs a hand through his hair and again I think...edgy, nervous. Something is definitely going on here. I force myself to wait patiently until he tells me what that something is. 

  


"It's about last night," he starts. "I think...I think I overreacted when you asked me that question." 

  


I cock my head to the side and look at him quizzically; unsure of where this is going. 

  


"No, I know I overreacted. I mean, it was just a question, right? And really, what harm would it have done to answer it? So ummm..if you want to ask me...again...you can. I'll answer." 

  


A grin slowly materializes on my face as things become clear. 

  


Draco Malfoy - ever the pragmatic Slytherin. Apparently he's decided it's best not to make waves so that I don't kick him out on his arse. 

  


Without the money. 

  


So whether he wants me inside his head or not, he'll answer the questions I throw at him, because he thinks he has no choice.

  


Well, all right then. Since he's willing to answer my question now; I repeat it, because I really did want to know. I always have wanted to know. 

  


He nods as he acknowledges what I've asked. Speaking haltingly, as if it pains him to do this, he begins to answer. "You rejected me, remember? You wouldn't shake my hand, that day we met..." 

  


"I rejected you because you were being an elitist snob, Malfoy." 

  


"I know that. Now. But back then no one had ever rejected me before. I was embarrassed and angry and...." 

  


"Bullshit," I say calmly. 

  


He frowns at me. "What?" 

  


"You heard me. I don't deny that my rejecting you upset you. But there had to have been more to it than that. You did everything in your power to make my life miserable back then. Why?"

  


He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and as he does so, he stops looking at me, choosing instead to stare at a point somewhere over my shoulder. His eyes seem to lose their focus and I suddenly find myself thinking that Malfoy is no longer here. Physically yes. But mentally he is somewhere else; maybe in the past that I'm pushing him to relive. 

"Because you were the sun, Harry," he says in a soft, faraway voice. 

  


Did I hear that correctly? Did he say I was the sun? Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I'd think Malfoy had gone completely barmy. After a few seconds, I finally manage to sputter out a very confused sounding, "What?" 

  


"You were the sun and I was the moon. You see, the moon can shine brightly and gloriously when it's alone. But when the sun comes....when the sun comes no one sees the moon anymore. That's how you and I were. No one saw me once you happened along. No one; not my parents, not my teachers, not even my friends really. You eclipsed me. And I hated you for it."

  


So. I have my answer at last. And it's not quite what I expected. Malfoy was cruel to me because he felt inferior to me? When he's the one that had both of his parents alive and a huge manor and more money than God? It just doesn't make sense to me. I try to understand it; to put myself in his shoes, but I just can't.

I don't voice any of these thoughts though. I'm fairly sure there would be no point. This is the only explanation I'll get from him. "That's a beautiful analogy, Malfoy," I finally say in my best sarcastic voice. 

  


His eyes focus and I can see that he is back in the here and now. "Thanks," he says as he matches my sarcasm note for dripping note. "I stayed up all night thinking of it." 

  


At hearing this, I crack a smile. Believe me I don't want to, but I can't help it, it was a funny thing to say. Malfoy smiles as well, although his is a guarded smile and quickly fades away. 

  


"All right. So I was the sun and apparently because of that your life was awful. But that was the past. Why do you hate me now?" 

  


"Who says I do?" 

  


"Oh come on, Malfoy. I can see it in your eyes every time I touch you. Or do you look at all your clients that way?" 

  


He gives me a withering look and turns away. "Maybe you're not as good at reading people as you think you are, Harry," he says. 

  


I open my mouth to continue the discussion, then suddenly close it, deciding it's better just to drop the subject. If he wants to play coy, so be it. I have another question that I'd rather ask anyway. 

  


"So long as you're being all cooperative and honest, there's something else I'd like to ask you." 

  


He sighs. "Yes, I thought you might." 

  


His obvious discomfort at being asked another question doesn't deter me. "How did you end up like this? Selling yourself?" 

  


He turns back towards me, his face twisted into a scowl. "And why do you want to know that, Harry? So you can rub my nose into my failures even more than you've already done?" 

  


I can see why he would think that, but I don't really need any further ammunition to hurt him. The truth is, I just really want to know. And I tell him so. He must see the truth in my face because he's going to answer. Don't ask me how I know this; I just do. 

  


Two seconds later he proves me right by saying, "Fine. I knew you were going to ask me that anyway. Gods, I need more coffee. I'd ask for something stronger, but I'm afraid to get you started."

  


I freeze. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

  


"Nothing," he says as he walks over to the coffee pot and pours himself another cup. He sits back down at the kitchen table and makes a point of looking anywhere but at me as he talks; even when he's addressing me directly.

  


I settle back against the counter comfortably. 

  


This should be interesting. 

  


"When the war ended, my wand was destroyed and I was bound from doing magic with any other wand." He pauses. "You probably know that already." 

  


"Yes, I do." I was one of the people who decided that would be a fitting punishment to those that had flirted with the dark side without joining it fully.

  


"You're also probably aware that our lands, our home, our money were all seized...."

  


"To use as reparation to the families hurt in the war. Yes, I know all that." Again, partly my doing.

  


He nods, seeming to take no offense at my interruption. "After that, things became very difficult for us. The wizarding world completely turned its back on us. There's no mark on this arm," he says as he holds out his arm for my inspection. Indeed, it is smooth, unblemished. "But my father's taint carried over to us anyway. The name Malfoy suddenly became synonymous with dirt. No one - and I mean no one - would give us a second chance. We had no money, no jobs, no shelter, barely any food...It was a living hell. To go from having everything to having nothing within a matter of weeks...from being respected and admired to being despised and avoided..." His voice cracks slightly and he stops and shakes his head. 

  


After taking a moment to compose himself he begins to speak again. "It was...it was very hard. After a while, I finally realized that there was no longer a place for me in the wizarding world, so I left it to live life as a Muggle. I figured at least in the non-magical world, no one would know me or my reputation. I thought I could make a fresh start." 

  


He stops speaking again and takes a deep breath. That far away look is in his eyes again and I know that he is no longer in my kitchen but in his own private world of memory.

  


Finally he speaks again, easily picking up right where he left off. "Unfortunately, that turned out to be no easier. At that point I'd never worked a day in my life, and I had absolutely no knowledge of how Muggles lived. I couldn't even walk into a room and turn on the damn light switch. I didn't know what a car was...a phone..didn't understand the money..had absolutely no skills. I was damn lucky they didn't cart me off to some insane asylum, the way I was behaving. As it was, I ended up on the street, with no money and no place to stay. 

  


I was desperate. And when someone came up to me and told me he knew a way that I could make some money, I was interested. I hated it, that first time. It hurt and the man was vile. And I swore to myself that if I got through it, I would never do it again; that I would never stoop so low. But then he put the money in my hand...and Pete came along with promises of more...and...and...the rest is history I guess..." 

  


He doesn't so much finish the story as he lets it trail into oblivion. As our mutual silence fills the air, I notice that he's looking down, one hand absently rubbing the place on his arm where the dark mark would have been. 

  


I tear my eyes away from his skin and concentrate on trying to digest all that he's just said. As I do, I begin to feel the first stirrings of pity within me. But much like the other night, I don't want to feel this particular emotion towards him. I refuse to. So I push it away. I push it away by telling myself that yes, he has had it hard, but so have so many others. His tale, sad though it may be, is just one of thousands written by a very brutal war. 

  


Mine included. 

  


"Do you expect me to feel sorry for you now?" I ask once the pity has been properly squashed and hidden.

  


He looks at me, his eyes dull. "You asked me. I told you. That's all."

  


Yes, I did, didn't I? And he did oblige. 

  


And yet there's something that's not quite right about what he's told me. It's not that I think he's lying to me, but something is off; like he's keeping a very important detail from me.

  


It takes me a few moments but it finally hits me. Malfoy began his story by saying "us" and "we". He ended it by saying "I". He went from talking about more than one person to talking about himself only. 

  


I take an educated guess as to who the "we" might have been. "What about your mother, Malfoy?" I ask.

  


His body goes rigid; his eyes no longer dull. They are blazing with a scorching intensity that is difficult to withstand. "What about her?" 

  


Nevertheless, I continue. "You haven't said what happened to her. Where is she? Is she...?" 

  


Suddenly Malfoy jumps up and comes toward me, moving faster than I think I've ever seen him move. He is very, very close to me, mere inches away from me, his hand on my arm, nails pressing into my flesh. "Look, I am _painfully_ aware that you hold all the cards in this relationship, but I will not answer any questions about my mother. And if you push it I'll leave. I don't need the sodding money that badly. Do you bloody well got that?" 

  


I am too stunned by his sudden vehemence to do anything but nod in the affirmative. 

  


He says, "Good," then suddenly seems to remember where he is and what he's doing and he lets go of my arm and steps back. He looks disconcerted and uncomfortable. "I...I think I'll go up to my room now," he says as he all but runs out of the kitchen. 

  


I rub the spot on my arm that he touched and find that it tingles; a reminder of his anger. 

  


It's only later when I'm showering that it strikes me that I should have kicked Malfoy's teeth in for touching me that way. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


I spend a full day at work which pleases my boss to no end. He spends all of it smiling at me and telling me what I good job I'm doing. 

  


Bloody wanker. Does he thinks he's currying my favor fawning all over me like that? If I were him, I would have had me fired months ago. 

  


By five o'clock I am more than ready to get out of here. At one minute after five, I am apparating into my living room. 

  


The first thing I notice as I walk through the house is that there is a pleasant smell coming from the kitchen. The second thing I notice is that the spilled wine and shattered glass from last night have been cleaned up.

  


My guest has been busy. 

  


I walk into the kitchen to find him stirring something on the stove. It smells like some kind of stew. It actually smells quite delicious.

  


"You made dinner?" I ask, although it's perfectly obvious that he did.

  


He doesn't turn around to look at me. "We have to eat, don't we?" 

  


"Something else you've picked up since joining the Muggles?" 

  


Now he turns to me. "As a matter of fact - yes. You'd be surprised at the things I can do now." 

  


A sarcastic reply is on the tip of my tongue but I swallow it. The man did just make dinner after all. And it wasn't even part of our bargain.

  


He returns to his cooking and I go upstairs to wash up and change into more comfortable clothing. When I get back downstairs, the meal is ready and the table is set. 

  


We eat it in almost complete silence, something that doesn't surprise me. I figure I'd better start getting used to the silence since I doubt we'll be enjoying lovely chit-chats anytime soon. I limit myself on my alcohol intake, deciding that I really don't want to wake up with a headache three mornings in a row. 

  


It is towards the end of the meal that he breaks the silence. "I see you managed to stay at work for a full day," he says. 

  


"Oh be quiet, Malfoy," I respond automatically. 

  


"You know what strikes me as interesting, Harry?" he asks as he leans over the table. Without waiting for my reply he says, "It's the fact that I have to call you by your first name but you get to call me by my last. Now why is that?" 

  


"Because that's the way I want it. _Malfoy_." 

  


He smirks. "Oh I get it. It's because in your little mind it gives you some kind of power over me. Because it's all some big power trip with you, isn't it?" 

  


I am determined not to let him get to me. I force a smile on my face and ask, "So what if it is?"

  


He sits back in the chair, smirk completely gone. "What happened to you, Harry? What happened to the person you used to be? Are you in there anywhere? Or is it just your hatred of me that turns you into this cold, heartless bastard?" 

  


All right. Enough is enough. Now I'm pissed off. "What happened to me, Malfoy, is an entire lifetime of hell being thrown at me from every direction! What happened is that my parents were murdered before I even knew who they were! What happened is that I was raised by people who couldn't care less about me! What happened is that I was scorned and ridiculed and bullied for half my fucking life! What happened is that I was thrown headfirst into a war when I was fifteen fucking years old and that I've seen more death and pain than anyone my age should ever have to! That's what happened!" 

  


Funny, but when I started my tirade, I was sitting down comfortably. Now I'm standing, gripping the sides of the table so hard that my knuckles are white, and my throat dry from shouting. I stand there, panting as if I'd run a marathon or something and I wait for Malfoy's reaction. I think I'm waiting to see if I'm going to have to beat the ever-loving shit out of him.

  


He stares up at me, his gray eyes big. "I'm sorry," he whispers. 

  


I shake my head to clear it. Obviously I'm not hearing right. "What?" 

  


"I'm sorry you had such a bad life. I never knew. I'm sorry."

  


My anger, which had been red-hot just a moment ago, is quickly dissipating, leaving me feeling confused and suspicious. "What are you playing at?" 

  


"Nothing." He sighs wearily. "I'm not playing at anything. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that all that happened to you." 

  


"You've really changed, haven't you Malfoy?" When I ask the question I'm being sarcastic. I expect a sarcastic reply in return. 

  


But there is none. "Yes, I have." So earnest, so sincere. I don't think I've ever heard this much raw honesty in his voice. Ever. 

  


I stare down at my plate. I feel so confused. I don't understand what's happening. This is not how we interact.

  


I need something that will put us back on familiar ground; where I feel safe. I grasp at this intangible, like a drowning man grasping for his life preserver. 

  


And when I find it, it is blessedly sweet and I say it with a note of triumph. "Let's go upstairs, Malfoy." 

  


Draco seems to understand, for he just sighs and says, "Right." 

  


We head straight into my room, he following behind me, leaving dishes and cups scattered all over the table.

  


I open the curtains to let the moonlight in, then turn around to face him.

  


He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor. "So. How would you like me tonight? On my back, my stomach?" 

  


I don't answer, instead I grab his arm and pull him over to the bed so that he is in front of it, the back of his knees against the mattress. Then I give him a light push and watch as he falls onto it. "Hands and knees," I order.

  


He takes off his jeans without a word, then turns around and maneuvers himself into the position I requested. 

  


I gaze at him, letting myself enjoy his beauty. He always was too pretty for his own good. His body - too pretty, too lean. 

  


The bite mark on his shoulder appears dark and red in the wan light. A striking contrast to his natural paleness. 

I run my tongue across it and he shudders. 

  


I undo my trousers and pull them down just far enough so that I can do this, I don't even bother with my shirt or my shoes. 

  


I push inside him, my forehead against the back of his neck and I have to wonder if anything has ever felt this good. 

  


Then, almost reluctantly, I begin to move.

  


This time when I finish, I mark him twice, once on his shoulder, once on his throat. 

  


He barely makes any noise despite the fact that I know he felt pain.

  


I roll off of him and onto my back, to wait til I catch my breath. He also rolls onto his back, apparently doing the same. 

  


He speaks only a second before I was going to ask him to go. 

  


"Why am I here, Harry?" His voice snakes through the dark; runs over me, through me.

  


It's a complicated question. It shouldn't be but it is. I try to think of a suitable answer, something that will satisfy him. And myself. But I can't. I finally settle for the truth. "I don't know," I whisper. 

  


He nods, I can't see him but I can feel the action against the mattress. "I'll go now," he says. 

  


"Yes. Go." 

  


And he does, just that quick. One moment he's next to me, the next he's nothing more than quicksilver in the moonlight. He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone. 

  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


_I'm dreaming again. _

  


_I know this dream. _

  


_I hate this dream. _

  


_I'm standing inside an oppressively small cottage. It is dark with crumbling walls and scorched floors. On the other side of the room stands Voldemort. Behind him stand the dead; my parents, Sirius, Cedric, Seamus, Tonks, Dumbledore and countless others. _

  


_These are not pretty, shimmering ghosts. These are rotting, bloody remnants of living flesh. _

  


_They hold out their twisted hands to me, imploring me to help them. But I'm so tired. I am so tired and all I want to do is lay down and sleep forever. _

  


_They won't let me ignore them however. They continue to beseech me until I feel I have no choice. I must fight Voldemort. The dead need a champion, someone who will avenge them. They need me. _

  


_I take one step forward and suddenly I am across the room and in front of Voldemort. _

  


_He looks at me, red eyes flaming and hisses, "Have you come to kill me? Do it quickly, before I kill you, boy." _

  


_I grab a hold of his neck and squeeze for all I'm worth. Behind them the dead attempt to cheer me on with their mangled vocal chords. I squeeze harder and harder until I have my enemy on his knees. _

  


_I close my eyes and pray that this will be over soon. Shouldn't he be dead by now? How much longer must I do this? _

  


_I open my eyes and look down but I am no longer looking down at Voldemort._

  


_It is Draco who is on his knees in front of me. _

  


_His sightless grey eyes stare straight ahead. His body begins to grow cold underneath my fingertips as blood flows from his mouth and onto the ruined floor..._

  


I wake up screaming. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: In this chapter...well in this chapter the author begs her kind readers to stay with her because she really is going somewhere with all this. Really; the turning point is coming. 

  


Because Cyndrarae asked - Animus means hatred. 

  
  


Animus (Part 5)

  
  


As the days pass, Malfoy and I establish a sort of pattern. I go to work in the morning, stay as long as I can handle being there, then I come home, then we eat, then we fuck. 

  


And except for the occasional bumps in the road, it's all working out better than I thought it would; that is to say, neither of us has killed the other yet.

  


A week into our arrangement I come home fully prepared to step into the usual routine. Expecting to smell some kind of food cooking, I smell nothing but antiseptic clean house. Curious, I walk to the kitchen. It is spotless and very, very empty. There's no food in the oven, nothing on the counters. What the hell? 

  


I shrug out of my robes and toss them over a chair in frustration. Today of all days, a hot meal would have been most appreciated. We were overloaded with work today and I had to stay late. I'm tired, I'm grouchy and I'm starved. 

  


"Malfoy!" I yell, loud enough that my voice resonates throughout the entire house.

  


"In here!" he yells back. 

  


I turn towards the sound of his voice. "Where is here?!?"

  


"The library!"

  


I stalk into the library and there I find him - curled up on a sofa, reading a book, cozy as can be. I take a quick look at the title - Pride and Prejudice. 

  


I didn't even know I owned that. 

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" I ask as I loom over him. 

  


"It's called reading, Harry. You should try it sometime. Might do you some good," he says without putting the book down.

  


"I know you're reading...that's not...ugh! Can you put that thing down for a minute?"

  


He marks his page with a bookmark and closes it, then looks up at me, his face blank. 

  


"Where's dinner?" I ask in my best 'I am irritated' voice.

  


"I didn't cook it," he says matter-of-factly.

  


"Yeah, I can bloody well see that. Why not?" 

  


"Because I didn't feel like it. If you remember Harry, that was not part of our arrangement. My calling you by your first name was, you fucking me was, and my being trapped here like a damn prisoner was, but cooking...not on the list."

  


Well, I can't argue with that - the man's right. Apparently I've come to take his cooking for granted. "What the hell are we gonna eat, Malfoy?" I ask as I try desperately to hold on to the offensive.

  


"How in the world did you survive before I came along? Honestly, Harry, you could make something. It wouldn't kill you." He pauses. "Or we could go out somewhere."

  


"Out?" 

  


"Yes, out. To a restaurant. To eat." 

  


Out? In public? But we already did that. And now he wants to do it again? 

  


I take a moment to consider my options, I could cook - although I'm really, really bad at it - most nights before Draco were based on take-out. I could not eat tonight. Or I could do as he's suggesting and take us out to eat. I have to admit, the last is the best choice. 

  


I make my decision. "Fine. Let's go then. Just give me a few minutes to change."

  


As I turn to walk out of the room, I catch a glimpse of Malfoy's little smile of triumph out of the corner of my eye.

  


Forty minutes later, we end up at a restaurant in the town center that serves American food. It's busy but the atmosphere is relaxed and the food is very, very good. 

  


As the waiter takes our orders, I find myself watching Malfoy from across the table. It's interesting to see how quickly he reverts back to being a proper young gentleman once he's back in a social setting. That genteel, aristocratic air that he always exuded so effortlessly is back with a vengeance.

  


As I continue to watch him I can't help but wonder how he does it. How does he manage to retain that part of himself after all that he's been through? 

  


It's funny, but a very small part of me admires him for it. If only he hadn't been such a nasty, little bugger in school...

  


The minute the waiter walks away, he turns suspicious eyes on me. "What?" he asks. 

  


"What?" I ask back, playing innocent. 

  


"You were staring at me." 

  


"Was I? Sorry." 

  


I wait for him to say something else but he doesn't. He takes a small sip of his water and looks around, obviously appraising the place. I believe he approves.

  


Luckily, we don't have to wait long for our food and once it's brought out, we both tuck in. As I watch him eat, I try to reconcile this polite young man with the man that I had on all fours just last night. It is almost impossible to do. 

This disparity causes a couple of questions to rise to the forefront of my mind. And because I know that he will answer almost anything that is put to him, I decide to ask. "How long have you been doing this, Malfoy?"

  


"What, eating?" 

  


"Don't be a git, you know what I meant." 

  


"You meant selling myself on the street like a piece of meat." 

  


"You're awfully glib today. But yes..." 

He shrugs and spears a carrot with his fork. "Little over a year."

  


"Do you...do you like it?"

  


My question causes him to freeze in mid-bite. He puts his fork down and stares at me. "Bloody hell, Harry, you can't be serious. Do I like it?"

  


I can see why he would think I was messing with him but I was serious. Lately, I've been wondering why he's still doing this if he hates it as much as he claims. His response puts me on the defensive. "Why have you done it for so long then?" I ask; my voice rising a little in accusation.

  


He studies me for a moment, then answers quickly. "Because I don't have a choice right now."

  


"You can't leave."

  


He answers the question hidden in my statement. "No. Not yet."

  


"Why not?"

  


"Because Pete would kill me."

  


"He'd kill you. And you know this for sure." Again, it is a question that merely sounds like a statement.

  


"Oh yes. I have no doubt. You see, I tried it before. A couple of months in, when I realized that no amount of money was worth this, I tried to leave." 

  


He takes a huge swallow of his wine and wipes his mouth carefully with his napkin. I just stare at him, willing him to go on. When it becomes clear that he doesn't intend to continue, I ask, "So what happened?"

  


"He found me and he beat the shit out of me." 

  


For a moment, I just sit there and continue to stare at him. The way he said that last sentence...he might as well have been reading a weather report...so completely dead. It unnerves me more than I'd like to admit to.

  


He speaks again before I can think of anything to say. "Look Harry, he's not just a pimp. He's got his fat little fingers in everything. Drugs, racketeering, you name it, he's into it. He spins a very big web." 

  


"And you...poor little thing, got caught in it."

  


"Yes, I did. And I didn't run far enough away and he found me. And for Merlin's sake, stop that."

  


"Stop what?" 

  


"I'm not going to keep answering your questions if you keep reacting with sarcasm."

  


"Fine," I say, suddenly not feeling up to arguing. 

  


He looks surprised. "Really?" 

  


I sigh. "Yes, really. Not everything about this arrangement is about making you miserable."

  


He looks at me, his eyes bright and piercing. "Yes it is. You're just too tired to push it right now."

  


I look down at my half-eaten dinner. My appetite seems to have vanished. I reach for the wine instead and drink a generous amount. "You must have been very desperate to accept this offer." 

  


He whispers, "Yes. I was." 

  


"You must really hate me."

  


He shrugs. "Hate is a very strong word. I hated you in school and look where that got me."

  


I nod, although I do not understand. But I do remember the retching sounds from the first night and I have to wonder if maybe hate isn't a strong enough word.

  


Then he resumes eating, and I, for want of something to do, resume drinking.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


He follows me as I walk through the house, trying to decide where we will end up. His footfalls behind me are strangely soothing. I believe I'm getting used to having him here. I might even miss this a little when he's gone. 

  


"So where..." he begins to say before cutting himself off abruptly.

  


I turn toward him, looking at him curiously. 

  


"Harry don't..." he says. 

"Don't what?" I say as I grab a bottle of scotch from the bar.

  


"Don't drink anymore. You've had enough."

  


"What?" I say incredulously. "No I haven't."

  


"Harry, come on, I had to drive you home."

  


"And now we're here and I'm not driving anywhere."

  


"Harry..."

  


I cut him off angrily. "What does it matter to you if I drink or not?"

  


He looks uncomfortable, as if he wants to say something but he's not sure if he should. Finally he seems to screw up his courage and says, "You're rougher when you've been drinking."

  


Am I? Maybe I am. I've never thought about it. But still, I need this drink. And Malfoy seems to have had no trouble dealing with things up to now. "I'll try to be more gentle," I say, although I'm not sure if I mean it.

  


He looks defeated as he sinks onto the couch. "Yeah, whatever, go hide in your bottle, then."

  


Now that stops me. I stand there, holding the bottle out as if I were offering him some. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  


He looks down at the floor and I can see that he's deep in thought. Deciding if he should answer? I seem to remember asking him something like this before and he completely skirted the question. 

  


He doesn't this time. 

  


He looks up. "It simply means that you drink too much. It means that you're using alcohol as a means of escape." 

  


I set the bottle down hard. I notice peripherally that some of the liquid splashes out onto the bar. "So you're playing psychologist now?"

  


"I don't need to be a psychologist to see what you're doing, Harry. The alcohol, the job, the seclusion here...all different ways to hide. What I can't quite figure out is what you're hiding from."

  


"You don't know shit. You don't know anything..." 

  


"But I do know. I've seen it every god damn day since I've been here."

  


"Look, not that you're right, but after what I've been through, if I decide that I want to indulge a little..." 

  


"Oh spare me the whining about your horrid life, Harry. I've already heard it. And if you haven't noticed, I've been having a pretty shitty time of it also, but you don't see me trying to obliterate who I am!"

  


"That's not what I'm doing. I'm just trying to live my life, that's all. I did my bit, I saved the world...and I just want to have a bloody drink!"

  


I'm shouting now. How long have I been shouting? How long has he?

  


"You saved the world and now you're going to drink yourself to death? Is that it? In that much of a hurry to join mum and dad?"

  


"Malfoy, I swear to God, if you don't shut your mouth..."

  


He stands up. "What? What are you going to do? Hit me? Will that make you feel better? Or would you rather just put your hands around my throat? Huh? What the hell is that all about Harry?"

  


No more. I can't hear anymore. The things he's saying...I can't...

  


I throw myself at him and tackle him to the ground. I straddle him and without any sort of conscious thought, I place my hands around his throat. He immediately gasps for air as his eyes open wide. 

  


He looks surprised. He didn't think I would do this? 

  


But it was his fucking idea.

  


It was his fucking idea. 

  


I shout it at him so that he understands. 

  


And then something horrible happens. 

  


His face is replaced by the face in my dream from the other night. Dead, cold, sightless, blood trickling...

  


No!

  


My hands fall away from his throat and I push myself up. I stand on legs that don't want to support me and I stagger away from him. I have to get out of here. I have to get out now. 

  


He's rolled on to his side and is taking huge breaths of air as he clutches at his throat. His face is no longer dead, but it is very, very pale. He's looking up at me; his eyes completely unreadable. 

  


Before he can say anything, I take the car keys from my pocket and run out of the room. 

  


As I all but throw myself in the car, I realize that I don't have a destination in mind. I just need to get away from this house. From Draco and his dead staring face.

  


I start the car with shaking hands and pull out onto the street; trying very hard not to think about the fact that I almost killed him. 

  


No longer feeling the least bit drunk, I drive into town and head for the nearest pub; a place I've been to many times before. The bartender knows me and asks if I want my usual. I nod and two minutes later I'm sitting in a quiet corner, my still-shaking hands wrapped around a glass of scotch.

  


As I continue to drink, I lose track of time. I lose track of everything, which is why I'm here in the first place. 

  


To get away, to forget...to hide? Am I hiding? Was Malfoy right?

  


No, he doesn't know anything. How could he? How could he?

  


_Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself..._

  


I shake my head and force myself not to follow that train of thought. 

  


I bring the glass up to my lips and swallow...and swallow until everything - the doubts, the fear, the pain, everything - melts in the sweet haze of bitter liquor.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: Wow! This took me a really long time. So sorry about the delay. Writing angst takes a lot out of you. 

  
  


Animus (Part 6)

  
  


Waking up today is a bit like trying to swim through molasses - that is it say, everything about coming to consciousness is impossibly heavy and slow and requires a great deal of effort.

  


I finally manage to open one eye, then the other; only to close them both with a surprised groan. Today of all days, the sun shines brightly into my room, and it sends a bolt of white-hot pain shooting through my skull. 

  


I groan again and desperately try to find my way back to the painless sleep that I was enjoying only moments ago, but it is already too late - I'm awake. 

  


Maybe if I just move a little, find a more comfortable position, maybe I can...

  


But all the slight movement does is cause a raging nausea to well up in my stomach. I take deep breaths to quell it, but again - it's too late. I can already feel the bile rising in my throat, burning it as it makes its way up. 

Momentarily forgetting about the pain in my head, I jump off the bed and stumble into the bathroom as quickly as I can manage it. I throw myself down on the floor in front of the toilet and lean over just in time to vomit into it violently. 

  


I continue to throw up for what feels like hours (but is probably less than a minute) then I lean back and wipe my mouth hastily. 

  


My throat and the inside of my nose feel like they've been burned with acid and my head is pounding ten times worse than before. It literally feels like my brain is trying to break its way out of my skull. The pain in my head exacerbates the nausea and I throw up again. And now I find myself caught in a seemingly never-ending circle. Throwing up again causes the pain to intensify which causes another round of vomiting. 

Finally, after endless minutes have ticked by, I am finally done; there is nothing left in my stomach to get rid of. Even the dry heaves are over. I slowly shift away from the toilet and drop my head into my hands. 

  


Jesus, what did I do last night? How much did I drink to end up like this? The last thing I remember is being at the pub. How did I get home? Did I drive? 

  


I have so many questions and no answers for any of them. It's frustrating and more than a little frightening; I've never experienced anything like this before - this loss of time. 

  


Feeling rattled I flush the toilet and then force myself to stand up. Leaning against the counter with one hand I reach for the hangover potion with the other. 

  


_Please let there still be some._

  


Eyes bleary and watery, I have to fumble around for a few seconds before I finally find it. Once I have it in my hand, I uncap it and drink it down greedily. 

  


For a frightening moment, I think I'm actually going to throw this up also, but I breath deeply through the pangs of nausea and my stomach gradually accepts it. 

  


I bow my head and wait for the potion to kick in. 

  


Mercifully, it doesn't take long. The pain and residual nausea ebb away until there is nothing left but the memory of them. 

  


Breathing a huge sigh of relief I straighten up, step over to the sink and turn the cold water on. I scoop it up in my hands and splash it on my face in an effort to revive myself even further. The water is cool and brisk against my flushed skin. It feels like heaven. I am finally starting to feel normal. Now all I need is a hot cup of coffee in me, and I'll be...

  


My thoughts cut off as, for the first time, I feel a strange ache in my hands. Funny how I didn't notice it before - the headache must have obscured it. Curious, I look down at them, and what I see literally takes my breath away. The knuckles of both my hands are swollen and bruised. I flex my hands carefully, noting that there is dried blood on them. Not much, but it is there. 

  


I lift my head and look into the mirror for the first time since entering the bathroom. Again my breath is stolen because of what I see before me. My left cheek is bruised, and so is the bottom corner of my lip. I bring one of my aching hands up to touch it, but it shakes so much that I can't. I let it drop and stare at my reflection in the glass.

  


_What the hell happened to me?_

  


I look down at my body and take a quick inventory. I don't see any further damage but I do note that I am wearing the same clothes from yesterday and that they are wrinkled and torn in some places. 

  


I take a couple of steps backwards and that's when I realize that my entire body is sore...as if I'd put it through some sort of physical exertion. 

  


I take another steps backwards, my eyes still glued to the mirror. 

  


_What happened to me?_

  


_What did I do last night? _

  


Again, too many questions and not enough answers. I rack my brain trying to recall something...anything, but I come up blank. 

  


And then I remember Malfoy - the other person in this twisted drama.

  


Could it possibly be his blood on my hands? But if it is - then what the hell did I do?

  


Energized by fear and a sinking feeling of dread, I run out of the room and into the hall, shouting his name as I go. 

  


I practically fly down the stairs to the living room. What I see only serves to increase the emotions churning inside me. The coffee table has been overturned, and the vase that sat at its center is now nothing more than shattered glass on the floor. 

  


I am growing more and more certain that I have done something very, very bad. 

  


I desperately shout for Malfoy again, but still there is no answer. I leave the living room and run into the rooms that he frequents - the library, the kitchen, but there is absolutely no sign of him. 

  


None.

  


Near frantic now, I run back up the stairs and throw open the door that he's been staying in. I step inside the room and look around.

  


My heart leaps up into my throat when I realize that someone is in the bed. 

  


It appears that I've found Malfoy; now the question is, what condition is he in? 

  


I take a deep breath and say his name. There is absolutely no movement from the figure buried under the covers. That shouldn't be surprising though, my voice was little more than a whisper.

  


I say his name again as I begin to move forward, my body trembling just slightly. My voice is a little louder this time, yet he still gives no sign that he hears me or is even aware of my presence. 

  


I reach the side of the bed and extend my hand until I grab hold of the sheets. I pull them back at an agonizingly slow place, yet I can't seem to make myself move any faster. I want to see but yet I'm so afraid to. 

  


I take a deep breath and pull it down just far enough to reveal Malfoy's face. 

  


Oh Merlin, it's just as I thought. I have done something very, very bad. 

  


Malfoy's pale face is marred by bruises, cuts and patches of dried blood, swollen in places almost beyond recognition. Now fully trembling, I pull the sheets down further and notice that he's also in the same clothes from yesterday except that his are in much worse shape than mine. 

  


I glance down at his chest. It rises and falls rhythmically, albeit slowly and with effort. He's asleep, but it's far from a peaceful sleep; his pain-lined face tells me that much. 

_And I did this. _

  


That sickening thought causes the world to swim before me and the nausea to return. I dig my nails hard into my palms to make it go away. I can't afford to pass out or be sick right now; not now. 

  


I wait until the dizziness is gone, then I carefully sit on the edge of the bed and place one hand on his shoulder.

  


"Draco." 

  


He moans and turns his head ever so slightly. 

  


"Draco, please wake up. Please..." The hand that was on his shoulder is now smoothing back his hair. 

  


His eyelids flutter and he moans again, this time louder. 

  


My hand comes across something sticky towards the back of his hair. I look - it's dark and red. It has stained the pillow. 

  


I grab his hand and give an encouraging squeeze. "Open your eyes, Draco. Come on." 

  


And surprisingly he does. The one eye that isn't swollen shut opens, then he blinks heavily. It takes him a moment to focus on me. 

  


"Harry?" he croaks out.

"Yes, it's me," I say, trying to sound comforting.

  


His stare, though bleary, manages to turn hard and cold. "Come to...finish what you...started?"

  


I takes me a second to decipher what he just said, the broken nose and swollen lips are distorting his words. 

  


I reach out towards him with my free hand. "No...I..."

  


He pulls his hand out of mine and shrinks away from me. "Don't you fucking touch me!" he yells, only to grimace in what appears to be agony the second the words leave his lips. 

  


I freeze, then drop my hands into my lap. "Did I...did I do this?" 

  


Why am I asking? I know damn well that I did.

  


He looks sideways at me and a bitter, choked laugh escapes him. "Oh that's rich...that's so damn rich. You don't...remember, do you?"

  


He's having a difficult time talking. I can tell by the way he breathes out his words; the way he has to pause every so often. It's not just the broken nose. Damage to his ribs maybe? Internal bleeding? No, if it were that he'd be coughing up blood by now.

  


I blink and remember that I was asked a question. "No," I whisper.

  


"Well Harry...you did. You - like so many of my fucking clients - got a little...overzealous."

  


His words cut deep and I turn my face away, shame making it impossible to look at him.

  


When I finally force myself to turn back I see that both his eyes are closed again. I stare at him, seeing the purpled skin and the blood congealing in his hair and the chest struggling to rise with every breath, and I know I can't afford to sit here any longer. 

  


"I have to get you to a hospital," I say as I begin to stand. 

  


His hand on my arm surprises me and stops me. He's looking at me again. "No hospital." 

  


"What? Why not?" 

  


"Think, Harry. You'll go to jail." He pauses and looks away. "And you can't pay me from jail."

  


So we're back to the money; the ever important money. But he's right about the hospital. Taking him to one in his condition would mean police and that could get very messy. But I can't just leave him here to suffer, hoping that he'll get better, and I don't know enough healing magic to really help him. 

  


He brings a hand up to his forehead and rubs it slightly, his face contorting in agony as he does so. "Just go away," he breathes out.

  


I'm about to reply that 'no I can't go away' when an idea hits me - Hermione is training to be a medi-witch. _She_ could help Malfoy. She's brilliant, and even though she's only in her first year of training, she's already better than most healers twice her age. 

  


And Hermione understands discretion. 

  


Yes, that's what I'll do; I'll get Hermione to help.

  


Now that I've decided on a course of action, I turn my attention back to Malfoy. "I'm going to get someone to help you, all right? Not a Muggle hospital, but you need someone." 

  


He doesn't respond, just turns his head and shivers slightly. I pull the sheets back up so that they cover his entire body, somehow resisting the ridiculous urge to tuck him in. 

  


All right then, no more wasting time; who knows how long he's lain there suffering. 

  


I run back downstairs to the fireplace and grab some floo powder from the small bowl that sits on top of the mantle. At the same time I pull my wand from my back pocket and aim it at the hearth. I start a small fire, then toss the powder onto it. Then I kneel in front of the fireplace and stick my head into it. 

  


I find myself looking at the inside of a house that I instantly recognize although I haven't been here nearly as often as I should. "Hermione? Ron?" I call out.

  


Within seconds both Ron and Hermione are running towards me from opposite sides of the house, surprise and concern on their faces. 

  


"Harry?" Ron asks at the same time that Hermione asks, "Harry, what's wrong? What's happened?" 

  


I look at Hermione, ignoring Ron for now. "I need you to come quick, Hermione, please. I need you..." 

  


She shakes her head in confusion. "But what..." 

  


"I'll explain when you get to my house, just please..."

  


"Well...of course..."

  


"And...bring your medical bag." 

  


She looks confused as anything, but she nods her assent and that's all I need to see right now. I pull my head back out of the fireplace and stand back up, ignoring the ache in my knees. 

  


Then I wait. 

  


Not two minutes later both Hermione and Ron apparate into the room. 

  


Hermione runs up to me, medical bag in hand. "All right, Harry. What's going on? Are you ill?"

  


"No, not me, it's someone else." 

  


"Who?" 

  


"He's upstairs."

  


"Upstairs? But who is it? What's going on? Is it a Muggle?" 

  


"Hermione, I'll explain it all later. I just need you to help him." 

  


I grab her hand and pull her up the stairs with me. Ron, who is acting the part of the silent observer, trails behind us. 

  


I walk into the room and step aside so that they can enter. They take one look at the figure on the bed and turn towards me, both shouting questions at once. They're speaking so fast I can't even tell who is asking what. 

  


"Malfoy?" 

  


"What is he doing here?" 

  


"What happened to him?" 

  


"Harry, what's going on?" 

  


Malfoy, for his part, looks at Ron and Hermione and rolls his good eye. "This just keeps getting better and better, " he says. 

  


Ron steps forward. "Harry. Explanation. Now." 

  


Once again I ignore him and talk to Hermione. "'Mione...please?"

  


She looks at me for a long moment as if trying to determine whether or not I'm still sane. Then she sighs and turns toward the bed. "Please leave, both of you. I'll call you when I'm done." 

  


"I'm not leaving you in here with that bastard!" Ron yells. 

  


Hermione fixes him with a stare that we both know all too well. It's the 'don't fuck with me' stare. "Ron. Go now. Please. I'll be fine. Won't I, Harry?" 

  


I nod. "He won't hurt you." 

  


As if he could hurt anyone in the condition he's in... 

  


_The condition that I put him in..._

  


"We'll be downstairs," I say as I grab Ron's arm and begin to drag him out of the room. 

  


For a second I think he's going to fight me and demand to stay, but apparently he trusts me enough to let himself be led. 

  


We go downstairs and sit down on the sofa that faces the tipped over table. 

  


Ron crosses his arms and looks at me. "Talk to me," he says. 

  


Faced with this demand I go mute. I can't even begin to think how to explain all of this.

  


Ron persists. "Why is he in your bedroom? And why does he look like he's had the crap beat out of him?"

  


"I...It's a long story, Ron," I finally say. 

  


He leans back against the couch in a parody of ease. "I've got time. Seeing as Hermione is upstairs healing one of our worst enemies...I've got plenty of time." 

  


The thing is - Ron has his own 'don't fuck with me' look. His isn't is scary as Hermione's, but it still works. I know that I have to tell him what's going on. 

  


So...I do. 

  


I tell him about coming across Malfoy on that fateful night. I briefly tell him about our "arrangement", then I go into the fight and my taking off for the pub. I finish by telling him what I found upon waking up this morning. It's no surprise that I leave a lot of the details out. There are things that even my best friend doesn't need to know about. 

  


And all the while, Hermione is upstairs fixing Draco Malfoy. It's funny how things never turn out the way we think they will. We always expected Hermione to become some high ranking Ministry official or something - never in a million years would we have dreamed she'd want to be a medi-witch. But then came the day that she saw Ron's leg severed in a particularly brutal battle. 

  


She held his hand as he bled out on the field and then later as the medi-wizard used magic to painstakingly grow the leg back. That wizard saved Ron's life. And right then and there, she knew what her career path would be. That was also the moment she realized she was in love with one of her best friends.

  


And although she's still in school and isn't technically a medi-witch yet; she is an amazing healer. And right now she's upstairs healing Draco - the prostitute. The irony of it all is almost overwhelming.

Ron speaks again and puts a stop to my wandering thoughts. "What possessed you to think this was a good idea, Harry?" 

  


"I never said I thought it was a good idea," I say defensively. 

  


He leans forward. "Then what the hell?" 

  


I'm starting to lose my patience. How can he expect me to explain something to him that I don't understand myself? "I don't know, Ron! I don't know!"

  


He shakes his head and I can tell that he's dropping it. "So, Malfoy turned out to be a prostitute. I have to admit it's very poetic justice...although knowing him he probably enjoys it." 

  


I think back to that first night and the sound of retching from across the hall. "He doesn't enjoy it," I say quietly.

  


Ron takes a deep breath and looks at the ground. "Look, Harry, you're a big boy now. If you want to bugger Malfoy...well...that's your business. But just promise me you'll be careful." He looks up at me and I see that eyes are earnest, almost pleading. "He may not have the use of magic, but he's still a Malfoy and he's still got a Slytherin heart. Use him all you want, just make sure he doesn't use you."

  


I nod mutely to show that I agree. I would answer but I can't seem to get any words past the lump in my throat. 

  


Ron says, "All right, then" and leans back against the sofa once more. 

  


We lapse into an uneasy silence as we wait for news on the "patient."

  


About twenty minutes later, Hermione comes down the stairs. She sits down on the chair opposite us, giving the overturned table and glass shards only a cursory glance. 

  


"How is he?" I ask. 

  


She shakes her head and runs a hand tiredly through her hair. "He'll live. The worst of it were the broken ribs and the concussion. I still can't believe he slept - he's damn lucky that he was able to wake back up. Anyway, he'll need plenty of bed rest for the next two or three days so that his body can completely heal; after that he should be fine. I've given him something so he can sleep without worry."

  


I breath out a small sigh of relief. "Thank you, Hermione. I owe you one." 

  


"What you owe me is an explanation," she says. 

  


"He didn't tell you what happened?" 

  


"He said it wasn't his place. That it was your story to tell." 

  


I clasp my hands together and try to avoid her gaze. "I don't think this is the right time to go into it..."

  


"Harry! I just healed Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy! You had better tell me what's going on!" 

  


Why was it easier to tell Ron than it is to tell Hermione? "Hermione, I...." 

  


But she's not listening to me any longer. She's staring down at my bruised hands. She slowly pulls her gaze away from them and comes back to my face. I believe it's only then that she notices the bruising. "Your hands...your face...Harry? Did _you_ do that to him?" 

  


I look down. "Yeah, I did." 

  


"Harry...why?"

  


I look over at Ron and plead with him with my eyes. The thing is, I can't do this. I can't tell the sordid story all over again. Especially not to Hermione. 

  


Ron stands up and walks towards her, placing his arm lovingly on her shoulder. "Come on, hon. I'll tell you everything at home." 

  


"But why can't you tell me now?" 

  


"Harry has had a bad morning. He's exhausted and he needs to rest. He's already told me what happened and I'll tell you. I promise." 

  


She looks at him, furrowing her brow intently. The she turns to me. "At least let me heal your hands." 

  


"No," I say. I need this pain. I need it to remind me of what I've done. What I am capable of. What I am always capable of. 

  


"Harry..." 

  


"NO!" 

  


"Fine!" she yells back. She looks angry; angry enough to want to argue or tell me off. But then her gaze softens. She walks over to me and gently cradles my face with her hands. "Whatever's going on Harry, just remember that we're here and we love you." 

  


"I know," I whisper. 

  


She stand up on tiptoes to give me a chaste kiss on my forehead, then she walks away. She picks up her medical bag and goes to stand beside her husband. 

  


"Remember what I said, mate. And don't be such a stranger," Ron says. 

  


I nod. "I will. And I won't." I allow a ghost of a smile to cross my face. "Thank you both." 

  


They both smile uneasily...and then they're gone. 

  


And now I'm alone. 

  


Well, not quite alone. I glance upwards to where Malfoy is resting and all I can see is his face... the blood...all I can hear are the words he had to struggle to speak. 

  


I drop to my knees heavily and hold my head in my hands. 

  


They hurt again. 

  


Good. They should hurt. I don't deserve anything less. Someone like me doesn't deserve anything less.

  


I close my eyes as a wave of sadness and desperation crashes down upon me. I begin to rock back and forth, wishing that I could cry. Just once, if I could just cry... Don't people feel better when they cry?

  


But no tears come. They never do.

  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Author's notes: OMG, this one was so hard! I could not for the life of me get inside Draco's head to get his reactions. And then I started to doubt Harry's reactions, which really sucked because I've been writing from his perspective since day one. So I struggled with this one, I really did. And I'm sorry I made you all wait so long for this chapter. As always, let me thank the people who take time to review. You are the cat's meow and the cherry on the ice cream. I couldn't do it without you. 

  


Now let's all sit in an internet circle and pray that the next one doesn't take me as long. 

  


Animus (Part 7)

  


Malfoy sleeps most of the first day away. I find myself checking on him frequently, making sure that he _is_ sleeping and that he hasn't somehow died on me. I'm paranoid as hell, standing over him, listening to his breathing and checking his forehead for a temperature. I am reminded of Aunt Petunia and the way she used to treat Dudley when he was sick. 

  


Then I try really hard to ignore the fact that I picked up anything from that old bitch. 

  


The few times that Draco is awake, he refuses food, saying he's not hungry. I don't push, although I'm tempted to. That would be acting far too much like my dear old aunt. Other than my offering to feed him and his refusals, the only time we truly interact is when I help him to the bathroom. Even then, no more than two words pass between us.

  


The second day is better. I bring soup and sandwiches. He eats. I don't have to help him walk to the bathroom this time. He makes it on his own, although he walks with the speed and agility of an 80-year-old man.

  


By the end of this day, I can clearly see the evidence of Hermione's healing power. Draco's bruises are the sickly yellow color that they would normally be after three weeks of natural healing, and cuts that might have required stitches in the Muggle world are well on their way to becoming nearly invisible scars. 

  


Hermione did a wonderful job; just as I knew she would. 

  


During these two nights, I lie in my bed and stare up at the ceiling as I try to conjure up images of what happened; of what I did to Malfoy. Yet, no matter how hard I try, all I see are jumbled flashes that make absolutely no sense. It's like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle and only having three good pieces to work with - it is useless and infinitely frustrating. 

  


On the morning of the third day, I crawl out of bed and make the decision not to go in to work.

  


I quickly write up some excuse about not feeling well and owl it over to the Ministry. That being done, I decide to take a quick shower in hopes that it will help me wake up. Under the warm water, I reach for the soap, yet my hand refuses to close around it. I look down and see that my knuckles and fingers are swollen to almost twice their size. They throb incessantly, which is good, it's what I wanted when I told Hermione not to heal me. Despite the pain, or maybe because of it, I force myself to wrap my fingers around the soap and begin to lather. 

  


After the shower, I manage to get myself dressed with my damaged hands and head downstairs for some toast and coffee. 

  


As I nibble at the toast - not hungry but needing something in my system - I look over at the clock. It's late enough that I should go see if Draco is awake and if he needs anything.

  


I leave the remnants of the toast and coffee on the table and walk back upstairs to stand outside his closed door. Trembling slightly, I remember how I raced into this room just three days ago, not knowing whether the person on the other side was alive or dead. I remember how frightened I was thinking that I had done something unforgivable. With sheer force of will, I push these thoughts back into the recesses of my brain. It's the only way I'll ever get myself inside the room. Otherwise, I'll stand here all day and drown in those memories. I knock quickly and open the door to step inside, automatically searching the bed for him. 

  


But the bed is empty.

  


Surprised, my eyes scan the room, finding him an instant later. He is standing at the window, his back to me. He is fully dressed in jeans and a jumper, yet he is rubbing his arms as if he were very cold. 

  


I clear my throat to ensure that I will have a voice. "You should be in bed," I say. 

  


He turns his head and gives me a quick sideways glance before turning back toward the window. "Yeah, well, I'm not."

  


I take a step forward. "Well, you should be, shouldn't you? I mean you're not well yet . . . Hermione said two or three days and it's only the beginning of the third and . . . " It's at this point that I realize that I'm babbling. I let my sentence die an awkward death, hoping I didn't sound too stupid. 

  


He finally turns to face me and in his eyes I see a look of dark amusement. They are dancing with it, and it makes his face look very alive . . . and also a little dangerous. "It's almost funny to hear you be so concerned about my well-being . . . especially considering you're the one who put me in that bed." 

  


Well, his sarcasm is definitely on the mend. I take a moment to choose my next words. A very large part of me is tempted to say something cutting, simply because that's the way I always talk to him. But another smaller part of me knows what the right thing to say is. So I find myself speaking words that I never thought I would say to this man. "Draco, I am so sorry," I say softly.

  


He snorts. "Oh, but why? You've probably been wanting to do that for years. You should be ecstatic that you finally got your opportunity." 

  


I shake my head. "Well, yes, but . . . no . . . I mean . . . what I did was wrong. You didn't deserve that." 

  


He continues as if I hadn't said a word, spitting his words out with malice. "I mean, it's not like getting beaten up by a customer is foreign to me. I just never really expected _you_ to do it. The golden boy. The defender of all." He opens his arms wide as if to encompass the whole world. "Except for whores from his past apparently." 

  


"Draco . . . "

  


"What?" he cries as his arms drop to his sides. His voice is no longer laced with malice. It's anguish I hear in it now. 

  


"I don't . . . I don't know what to say."

  


Whatever spark of anger had been building inside of him seems to vanish, gone so suddenly it's as if I had imagined it was ever there. He sighs and walks over to the side of the bed, all but collapsing on it. He begins to rub the back of his neck as if it aches. "I don't either," he says softly. 

  


Now that we're both in agreement that neither of us knows what the bloody hell to say to each other, silence envelops us once more. Far from feeling suffocating however, it feels almost right, as if it belongs there. For once I don't feel the need to say something . . . anything just to break it. And yet eventually I am the first one _to_ break it. Because there is something that I need to know. And if I don't ask it now, I may never do it.

  


"Draco?" I venture, as I also walk to the bed and take a seat on it, being careful to keep distance between us. 

  


He continues to rub his neck. He doesn't even look at me when he answers. "Yes?"

  


All right, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath and let the words spill out. "Will you tell me what happened that night? Tell me what I did?"

  


Now he looks at me, his eyes both incredulous and amused at the same time. "You still don't remember?" 

  


I shake my head. "No. I don't really remember anything."

  


His next question takes me by surprise. "Do you want to?" he asks.

  


And for a moment I'm not sure how to answer that. Do I? Isn't ignorance bliss? Yes, perhaps it is sometimes, but not now. Now it's torture. "I need to know what happened," I state firmly. 

  


He stares at me, long and hard enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I have to force myself to meet his silver gaze, but I do it. 

  


"No," he says finally. 

  


I heard wrong. I know I did. _"What?"_

  


"I won't tell you. If you want to know so badly, brew a memory potion and remember it. I'm not going to do it for you." 

  


"But . . . " 

  


"Telling it wouldn't do it justice. You want to know what you did? You see it for yourself."

  


I'm about to try to argue when I realize that he's right. To make him relive it by telling me would be cruel. "Yeah, all right. That's what I'll do," I say. To be honest, I think I knew all along that this was how it had to be, I just didn't want to face it. 

  


He stands up hastily. "I need some fresh air. I'll be in the back garden." 

  


I reach out and grab his arm as he walks past me. Although I'm quite gentle, he visibly flinches. I let my hand drop onto my lap. 

  


"I need to ask you one more thing. Before I do this. I need to know . . . will you be staying?" 

  


He looks at me like I've just asked the world's most idiotic question. "Why wouldn't I be? The month isn't up." 

  


I had so expected the answer to be no, that he'd be packing his meager belongings any second now, that I am struck speechless. "I thought . . . because of what I did . . . " 

  


Now he looks away from me. "No, Harry. I need that money, and you know that. Besides, I told you you weren't the first." He shrugs. "It seems to be an occupational hazard."

  


Although he's not looking at me, I can feel shame radiating from him in waves. It manages to be both scorching and glacial in its intensity. And here I go again, feeling badly for him and feeling badly because I am partly responsible for this shame.

  


I'm about to apologize to him again when he does something completely unexpected. He leans down very close to me and puts his mouth against my ear. His whispered words are hot and tinged with a seductive darkness. I can feel his fingers trailing fire down my arm. "Let me ask you a question, Harry. Your guilt has you calling me by my first name. Will it stop you from fucking me?" 

  


He pulls away and I'm left to stare at him in dumfounded silence. He apparently takes this silence as a no. His eyes narrow to mere slits. "I didn't think so. That's what I'm here for after all," he says coldly before turning and leaving the room. 

  


I watch him leave, too confused to do anything but stare at the doorway. What just happened here? What was that? And was he right? I cast my memory back and try to remember when I started calling him Draco instead of Malfoy. But the memory of that is slippery and it hides from me.

  


I shake my head to try to clear it and focus on what I have to do. I have to make a memory potion. And I have to do it now before I lose my nerve. I'll think about the rest of this after I conjure up the memory of that night.

  


I go downstairs to the library and rifle through stacks of parchment until I find the one containing the instructions for making the potion. I'm glad to see that it isn't difficult although it is a bit time consuming. 

  


It takes me a full hour to make it, but at the end of those 60 minutes, I am triumphantly holding a cup of it in my hand. And Snape said I was no good at this stuff. 

  


I bring the cup close to my face and peer at it. It is a dark, violent green color that can not possibly exist in nature. 

  


Wonderful. That means it's going to taste like shit. Wrinkling my nose, I bravely take a huge gulp of it. Then I take another for good measure. It does taste like shit. 

  


I walk over to the sofa in the living room and sit down on it gingerly, then say, "September 17. Third perspective."

  


Then I wait nervously for it to begin. 

  


It doesn't take long and when it happens, it's a bit like growing a third eye. I still see the room that I'm in and all my surroundings, but I'm simultaneously seeing another time and place. 

  


I see myself sitting in the dark, quiet corner of the pub.

It's actually a bit like watching a film unfold, fascinating really, and I turn all my attention to that third eye. I see myself stand up and stumble out the doorway, deftly avoiding the bartender's gaze. 

  


I see myself drunkenly lurch to my car, unlock it and get in. I see the drive back home, in full living color; it is a miracle that I made it back alive, or without hurting anyone else. I see myself park the car and get out of it. My movements are jerky, fast. I seem angry. 

  


As the memory continues to develop, I see that I can't find my keys, so I use my wand and whisper 'Alohamora', to get inside the house. I see myself walking around the house, swaying as I go. And then that third eye's perspective widens and I see that I am in the living room and that Draco is curled up on the sofa, reading the same book from the other day. 

  


I hold my breath as I realize that this is it.

  


_"You're back," he says without looking up. _

  


_The me that's in this morbid film spits out his name. _

  


_Draco puts the book down and turns. He looks curious but wary, as if he senses something is not right. _

  


_"Get over here," I say. _

  


_"You're drunk," Draco says matter-of-factly. _

  


_"Yeah, you're right. Now get the fuck over here."_

  


_He stands up slowly. "What do you want, Harry?" _

  


_I stumble forward a few steps, clutching furniture so as not to fall. "The only thing I'd ever want from you, you whore." _

  


_He stiffens and I can hear his sharp intake of breath. "This isn't a good idea, Harry. You're drunk . . . you're . . . "_

  


_"I know that, Malfoy. Now come over here!" Even as I'm yelling this, I'm moving closer to him. He does not move at all. _

  


_He shakes his head. "Harry . . . " _

  


_I'm close enough to him now that I reach out and grab his arm to pull him roughly toward me. "What the fuck am I paying you for, Malfoy? Huh? Come on." I start to pull at his clothing in an attempt to get it off. A few of his buttons snap and fall to the ground. _

  


_He's not really resisting me, but he is stiff as a board, his body not giving an inch. I begin to kiss his neck . . . the hollow of his throat. No, not kissing. What looks like kissing is actually me pushing my teeth into his pale skin. _

  


_He puts his arms on my shoulders as if to push me away, but he doesn't. He just keeps them there and tilts his head back with a small groan. _

  


_And I, I am a tempest of activity, clutching and grabbing and biting as if I can't get enough, as if I'm starving for him. I yank his head to the side, fasten my mouth to his shoulder and rake my nails down his side. I am brutal, hard . . . Gods, I am so cruel._

  


_Then I do something that I haven't done the entire time he's been in this house. I hold his head steady with my hands and kiss him furiously on the mouth. After several seconds pass, I pull away from him and hoarsely say, "Your trousers, get them off." _

  


_He drops his hands from my shoulders and does as I say, stepping of them cleanly. His face is unreadable, but the lines of his body are taut with tension. He could not possibly be any more stiff. He is like a statue that I am forcing to move through sheer physical force. _

  


_I don't bother with taking off my own trousers, I simply unzip them and pull myself out. I am only half-hard. I reach for him again, but this time we lose balance and we fall. He falls backward, I forward, and I land on top of him. _

  


_I don't give us any time to recover from the fall. "Now," I whisper hoarsely. He opens his legs and I push forward. But something is not happening the way it should. I pull away a bit. On my face I see a look of frustration._

  


_Draco sighs. "Harry . . . " _

  


_I push forward again. "Can't . . . " I mumble. Then, "Open wider." _

  


_He does. The look of frustration on my face is slowly turning into one of anger. _

  


_"What the fuck?" I say. "Why can't I . . . " I look down at him, my face now furious. "Get me ready. Do what I fucking pay you for."_

  


_With swift, economical movements, he positions himself so that he is under my groin and he takes me into his mouth. No questions, no protests. He just does it. After a few minutes of him working on me, I pull myself out of his mouth and reposition myself so that I am back at his entrance._ __

  


_I push forward again, and apparently_ _it works this time, for soon after my hips begin to rock back and forth. _

  


_"This is all you're good for, Malfoy. All you've ever been good for," I whisper as I thrust into him. _

  


_But it doesn't last long, and soon I'm pulling away from him again. "Fuck, why can't I . . . "_

  


_"Harry, just get off. It's not gonna happen," Draco says as he tries to push himself up onto his elbows. _

  


_"Fuck you!" I shout as I backhand him across the mouth. "It is going to happen. That's why you're here!" _

  


_His head slams back hard against the floor and he brings his hand up to the spot that I just hit. He looks stunned. _

  


_Then he looks angry. Placing both hands on my chest he pushes me. "Get off of me!" he shouts. _

  


_Unprepared for this, I fall over. He begins to stand up, but I'm fast, even in this drunken state. I catch his arm and bring him back down, then grab his hair and slam his head into the floor. He groans and tries to roll away, but I am on top of him again. _

  


_"Make it work!" I yell. _

  


_"You're sick, Potter!" he yells back. _

  


_"Fuck you. This is your fault. This is all your fucking fault!"_

  


_And then I'm hitting him, hard, over and over again. He manages to get his arm up, hitting me on the side of the face twice and hard enough to tip me over. Then he gets up. _

  


_But I follow. _

  


_I grab him and we tussle for a little while, neither one of us gaining the advantage over the other. _

  


_Then I manage to push him hard, and he falls backward, hitting the edge of the coffee table and knocking it over. The vase on top of it goes flying, and when it lands, it splinters into a trillion pieces. _

  


_Draco is lying on his side, his hand on his head, fingers intertwined with his hair. He pulls his hand away slowly and looks at it. There is blood on his fingertips. _

  


_I give him only a few seconds to rest before I'm on him again. This time I kick him hard in the side; two, three times. And all the while I keep telling him that this is his fault, that it's all his fault, though God only knows what I'm really blaming him for. _

  


_He does try to fight back, but it's really no use. I don't know if the hit that he took on the head is to blame or if maybe I'm really that much faster and stronger. Maybe it's because I've got what is obviously unquenchable rage on_ _my side. Whatever the reason, the fight soon dissolves into a beating where I'm just pounding him mercilessly. _

  


_And the entire time words like, 'slut' and 'whore' fall easily from my lips. _

  


_Finally, he stops moving, stops trying to even defend himself. _

  


_Then I stop and push myself up, swaying dangerously once I'm vertical. Somehow I manage not to fall back down. _

  


_"What the fuck are you good for, then?" _ _I hiss as I veer away from him. _

  


_I tuck myself back in my trousers and head for the stairs. I stumble over my feet, nearly fall, but catch myself on the bannister. I make it all the way to my own room without any further incident, then I flop down on the bed. _

  


And here the film comes to an abrupt halt as the third eye closes. 

  


I blink heavily and try to focus on the here and now, but I can't quite manage it. I am still seeing those pictures in my mind. Images that will probably follow me into death. But the images are not all that's disturbing. In fact they are nothing compared to the feelings that accompany them. 

  


Because I know now what I was feeling as I was doing those things. I felt angry and frustrated and bitter. And when I started to beat Draco . . . I felt nothing but pure pleasure. 

  


This last thought causes me to drop onto the floor. I land heavily on my hands and knees, staring at the ground beneath me.

  


I open my mouth and what escapes is a sound of anguish so severe, so horrible that it doesn't even sound human. 

  


And as the sound continues to pour from my mouth, one word resonates over and over in my head. 

  


_Monster. _

  


_Monster._

  


_Monster._

  


I am a monster. 

  


Just as I thought. Thought...fuck...just as I knew. 

  


_I knew._

  


I stare down at my hands, at my still healing flesh, and I feel such a wave of disgust that I begin to retch. 

  


Oh Merlin, this hurts. This hurts so badly. This knowledge. Knowing. It hurts. I shake my head brutally and somehow manage to replace the accusing litany in my mind with another thought. 

  


A bright, shining thought.

  


The liquor. 

  


The liquor will make me forget. I'll just take it and lock myself in my room and drink it up there. I won't hurt anybody if I'm locked away. 

  


I won't.

  


I push myself up from the ground and stumble to the bar, my hand reaching for the nearest bottle. I don't care what it is, as long as it erases things. As I wrap my fingers around its precious neck, I hear the sound of footsteps.

  


I don't bother to turn. I know who it is. 

  


Draco. 

  


Draco is here. 

  


I grip the bottle just a little tighter.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: This chapter is dedicated to the man in my life. (Honey, you know who you are.) Not only does he _not_ run away screaming when I torture the Harry Potter boys, he actually reads the stories, discusses them with me, and encourages me to continue. Thank you, babe. And although from now on, the story will probably not be to your liking (he wants more hurt, less comfort) I'm hoping that you will nevertheless find the rest of the journey work sticking around for. 

  


To falling ice star: Thank you for your kind words. And actually, Animus has a dual meaning. Yes, it can mean soul or spirit. But it can also mean enmity, deep-seated hostility and antagonism, ill-will or animosity. So . . . it's both. 

  


To all the others who reviewed: Thank you all. Your taking the time to review means more than you'll ever know. 

  
  


Animus (Part 8)

  


His voice comes to me; loud, clear and angry. "What the hell are you doing?" 

  


I grasp the bottle and bring it close to my body as I swing around to face him. "Get away from me, Draco," I growl. 

  


"What is that in your hand, Harry?" he asks, though his tone makes it clear he knows perfectly well what it is. 

  


"Just . . . just go back to whatever you were doing. This doesn't concern you." 

  


He takes a step closer to me. I take one back. Parody of a waltz. "I think it does," he says. "I hear a noise that sounds like someone's killing a bloody dog in here and then I run in to find that you're trying to drink again. I think that concerns me, don't you?" 

  


I shake my head, negating what he just said. It's not his business. Not this. "Just go away." 

  


He looks at my face, then down at the bottle, then back up to my face. And it clicks for him then. I can see the knowledge growing in his eyes. Hell, I can almost see a light bulb above his head blinking on. "You remembered," he says in a flat monotone. 

  


There's no need to confirm what he already knows. "I'm taking it upstairs. I just need a few drinks. I'm not going to do what I did the other night. I swear. I won't even come near you." 

  


He takes a deep breath and nods slightly as if to say that all is fine. Then he begins to walk toward me with his arms held out, palms up. His demeanor is not threatening in the least and I find that I don't have any urge to continue the waltz. He stops when he is right in front of me and puts his hand on the bottle that I still hold. 

  


His face is so serene. He looks wise, accepting, at peace. Before I know it, he's pulling the bottle away from me and I'm letting it go. "Do you see this?" he asks as he holds it in front of my face. 

  


I nod dumbly, entranced by this sage version of Draco Malfoy. 

  


"FUCK THIS!" he yells and turns around, throwing the bottle violently across the room. It hits the wall and shatters. With an incoherent cry, I push him aside and run to it, just in time to see the scotch starting to soak into the carpet. 

  


"What the fuck did you do that for?" I shout as I turn to face him. 

  


He points to the mess on the floor. "Because that is the last thing you need!" 

  


I take a step forward, my fists clenching tight at my sides. "What are you talking about? It was just a few drinks. I told you I wasn't going to hurt you!"

  


"Are you that daft? Do you really not see?" 

  


"See that you broke my fucking bottle for no reason?!" 

  


"Bloody hell, what a moron," he says in a soft voice, as if he were talking to himself. Then louder, yet no longer shouting, he says, "I'm going to say this slowly, so that you understand, Harry." He pauses. "You. Are. An. Alcoholic." 

  


A what? My voice, when I finally find it again, is both outraged and shocked. "I am not an alcoholic!" 

  


"Really? Well if you're not, then you're two steps away from it, and that's really not much of a difference. _Harry_."

  


Of all the things to say to me right now . . . an alcoholic! If this were another time, I might find this amusing. 

  


But it's now. 

  


And it's not. 

  


"You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You don't know me!" 

  


"The fuck I don't!" he yells. 

I'm about to continue to argue, but what would be the point? He thinks I'm an alcoholic, fuck him. Let him think it. "Just stay out of my life," I say as I stalk past him and toward the bar. As I pass, I give him a little push for good measure. 

  


Recovering instantly, he says, "See, I can't really do that. You invited me into your life, remember?" 

  


Now he's right behind me, moving with me. I don't need to turn around to know this. I can feel his presence like a lingering shadow. "Go away," I spit out, fully intent on reaching my goal. 

  


"You pick up another bottle and I'll take it and smash it." 

  


That stops me. I turn to him, incredulous. "What?"

  


"You heard me." 

  


"Fine, I'll get another one," I say, then inwardly cringe. I sound like I'm five years old and getting in a fight at the sandbox. What happened to the righteous anger I was feeling just two minutes ago?

  


"I'll smash them all, Harry." 

  


Oh wait, the anger's back. It tends to come back when I'm being threatened. "You do that, Malfoy, and I swear to God, I'll . . . "

  


Before I get a chance to finish the sentence, he says, "You'll what? Beat me half to death? Again?" 

  


And just like that all the anger is gone. Vanished. You see, there was something about the way he said those words . . . Something about the way he stood stock still, even though I was starting to advance on him. Something about the way his voice was calm, composed, even though his eyes were raging. 

_Beat me half to death. Again . . . _

  


And God help me, maybe that's exactly what I would have done. Hurt him again, all over some lousy bottles of scotch.

  


That thought, combined with three nights of not sleeping, sucks the energy out of my body. I suddenly feel so bone-weary that I can't even hold myself up. Gracelessly, I sink to the ground, landing with my legs folded underneath me.

  


And there it is again, that feeling of wanting to cry, of wanting to let go. The pressure in my head, the stinging just behind my eyes . . . they're all there, little teasing hints of a release that I can never seem to achieve. 

  


Once again, I can feel his presence, and it pulls me away from my self-defeat. He hovers somewhere above me, out of my sight. 

  


"You haven't slept much have you?" I hear him ask. 

  


I give a dull half-nod, not bothering to look up. 

  


I hear him sigh from somewhere up above me. "Just go to bed, Harry. Just go to bed, and . . . leave this shit down here." 

  


I take a second to think about this. Truth is, bed sounds nice. Sleeping sounds nice. Not as nice as the liquor, but apparently _that's_ not going to happen. Not without a fight, anyway. 

  


"All right," I manage to say through an ever-deepening veil of pure exhaustion. 

  


But I soon find that agreeing and doing are two different things. It takes me a good two or three tries before my legs want to work for me and I'm able to stand. I half-expect Draco to help me at some point, but he never does. He just stands there, arms folded, expression a blank slate, yet eyes still fierce. 

  


Once vertical, I begin to move through the room slowly, clutching onto things as I go so as not to fall back down. I probably look a bit like I'm drunk again. 

  


I manage to make it all the way up the stairs and to my bedroom before collapsing on the bed. I don't bother with clothes; far too tired for that. Just so damn tired, I begin to wonder why I ever wanted anything but sleep anyway. 

  


I close my eyes, and as I drift off, I imagine I can hear the sounds of breaking bottles from downstairs. 

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


I wake up to opaque darkness. For a brief, disoriented moment, I have a flashback to the war, thinking that I'm waking up on some dark battlefield. I suppress a gasp and go to reach for my wand when reality suddenly replaces nightmare. 

  


I'm in my house and on the bed that I paid far too much for. 

  


I'm safe. 

  


I sit up as my breathing returns to normal, then glance out the window to see that the sky is a perfect blanket of ebony. God, I must have slept for . . . I glance at my watch . . . yes, about 12 hours straight. 

  


Good lord, I don't think I've ever slept that long at a stretch. I should feel incredibly refreshed, but I don't; I feel odd, groggy and my head aches. 

  


I go to the bathroom and then down the stairs as if on autopilot. Standing in the dark kitchen, I reach into the refrigerator and pull out some cold cuts. I eat just enough to quell the hunger in my stomach. 

  


Then I head back upstairs. 

  


To Draco's room. 

  


Did I ever really think that I was going anywhere else? 

  


I sit down on a chair across from the bed. The half-moon in the sky bathes him in cold silver. He looks so at peace; no creases or lines of pain and worry in his face. He looks young, innocent . . . like a different man from a different time. I reach out to him and place one hand on his arm, then I squeeze slightly. He wakes almost instantly, with reflexes akin to those of a war veteran. Reflexes like mine. I pull away and sit back in the chair. He sits up in bed, looks at me quizzically and says, "Harry?" with a voice made husky from sleep. 

  


I turn away from him, knowing that I will never say what I'm about to say if I look at him. But he deserves to know. If anyone does, it's him. So I talk to the carpet instead. And although I'm looking at the carpet, I'm not really seeing it. I'm seeing memories; visions of things that were. My voice, when I finally speak, is so dead and cold, it is foreign even to me. 

  


"When I fought Voldemort for the last time . . . I didn't defeat him with magic. I strangled him to death. With my bare hands . . . " 

  


"I'd heard that," I hear him say quietly. "I wasn't sure if I believed it."

  


"When I had my hands around his throat and I was squeezing, it felt so . . . good. And all I wanted in that moment, was to squeeze the life out of his body." 

  


He is silent for a moment as if pondering what I'm saying. Then softly he says, "And?" 

  


I lift my eyes to see that he is sitting up in bed, covers bunched around his waist. His alabaster skin almost shines in the moon's glow. It is, I think, a sight almost too poetically beautiful for this moment. 

  


I know that my voice is going to betray me before I even speak. I know it will no longer sound dead. "Don't you see?" I ask plaintively. "I enjoyed killing him. I'm a monster." The last words, are spoken only in an anguished whisper. 

  


"Everybody kills in war, Harry. Surely that wasn't the first life you'd taken." 

  


"No, it wasn't. But it was the first one that I _enjoyed _taking. I _liked_ killing him. Don't you see what that means? Don't you see what that makes me? " Before he has a chance to reply, I softly say, "And then, that night, with you. I remembered. I remembered how I enjoyed hurting you."

  


Draco shifts on the bed, looks as if he has no idea what to say. But that doesn't matter. I know what to say. It's what I've been thinking for two years. What was just proven to me in full glorious technicolor today. "Everyone thinks I'm a hero. And all I am is a monster." 

  


"Harry," he says softly. 

  


"Don't!" I yell, although I don't even fucking know what I'm even yelling about. "Don't." 

  


He tone hardens a bit. "All right, let me see if I understand. You think you're a monster because you enjoyed killing the man that murdered your parents and in turn tried to murder you and subsequently made your life hell?" 

  


I nod slowly. That about covered it, yeah. 

  


He sighs heavily and I can imagine him rolling his eyes. "Stupid Gryffindor. I swear the bloody lot of you truly enjoy being miserable." 

  


I raise my head slightly at this, peering at him through my fingertips. 

  


"Harry, feeling that way doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human." 

  


"No . . . " 

  


"_Yes_," he says. "Why do you insist on setting standards for yourself that no one could ever hope to attain?" 

  


Do I do that? But no, everyone else sets the standards for me. I just try to live up to them. Or I used to. "What about . . . what about what I did to you?" I ask hesitantly. 

  


"Don't expect me to try to explain that, Harry."

  


"No, you're right, you shouldn't have to," I say quickly. 

  


I expect the conversation to end there, but then he inhales deeply and exhales heavily, a sign that he's getting ready to say something difficult. I, in turn, hold my breath, preparing myself for whatever's going to come out of his mouth. I drop my hands down between my legs so that I can see him better.

  


"That night," he says, "when you came up to me, it was like my worst nightmare come true. I mean here you were, my," he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers, "_archenemy_, and you were at the top of your game. Big war hero, everyone loving you even more than they did before. And here I was, about as low as one can possibly go. Accepting your offer, was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. And at first, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to handle it." 

  


"I heard you that first night," I say, interrupting. "Throwing up. And the second night. You were talking to yourself. Trying to get yourself through it." 

  


He nods, and if he's at all surprised that I overheard those things, he doesn't show it. "Yeah. It wasn't easy at first. But the longer I stayed here, the more I realized something. And things started getting easier. Not easy, mind you. Easier." 

  


"What was that?" 

  


He laughs. "That you are one of the most fucked up people I have ever come across. Ever." He shakes his head. "But you're not a monster. You're just very, pathetically, human." 

  


I sit still and let his words sink into my brain. Not a monster, but human. I'd never thought of it like that. Don't even know if I really believe it, but the thought is . . . nice. 

  


"Bloody hell, you really have changed," I say, bewilderment and surprise coloring each of my words. 

  


"Told you I had." 

  


"You could have . . . " 

  


_You could have told me I was a monster. You could have twisted my knife even further in. The knife that I embedded myself so long ago. But you didn't. _

  


"I'm just telling you how I see things, Harry. That's all." 

  


As if it's that simple. And maybe for him it is, but somehow I don't think so. How can it be, with the two of us?

  


"Draco . . . " I begin to say. 

  


"Hmm?" 

  


"I'm lonely." 

  


His voice is bitter with cynicism and something like disappointment. "Want to shag, Harry?" 

  


"No. I just want to . . . " I tilt my head toward the empty side of the bed. "Can I?" 

  


He shrugs. "It's your bed." 

  


Yes, it is. And yet, I still can't believe I'm doing this. But he just looks so solid and real and I am so lonely. Have been for such a long time. 

  


_And he was so kind. He didn't even touch the knife._

  


I remove my trousers and shirt, then slide in next to him under the covers. 

  


He faces me and wraps himself around me, his body already slipping down. "No," I say as I stop him with my hands. "Just turn over." 

  


He looks at me as if puzzled, then moves back up and does as I say. I place one arm across his waist, my chest pressing against his back. 

  


"Harry?" he asks hesitantly. "Don't you want to . . . " 

  


"Just this," I assure him. "This is all I want." 

  


"All right." He says it like he doesn't believe it. Like he knows that at any moment I'll start molesting him. He's nervous, I can tell by his quick breaths, the slight trembling in his frame. But how to tell him that I just don't want to be alone? That I'm just so thankful that he didn't twist the knife?

  


My lips barely brush against the nape of his neck. "You are so beautiful," I breathe out. "Why do you have to be so beautiful?" 

  


His voice wavers, close to breaking. "I'm not. Trust me, I'm not." 

  


"Yes. You are. Beautiful." 

  


He says nothing. 

  


And neither do I. 

  


It takes a while for him to relax enough to fall asleep, and for me it takes even longer. For too many minutes to count, we both lay awake in the dark, silent, each one of us lost in our own thoughts. 

  


I'm no mind reader, so obviously I have no idea what ran through his head. But I know what ran through mine. 

  


One thought . . . piercing in its clarity. 

  


_Somebody else knows. And I don't feel so alone anymore. _

  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Author's notes: I apologize for the length of time it took to get this chapter out. Between the holidays, moving and not having internet access, this was a real bitch to get done. But I promise everyone that I will see this story out to the end. I am NOT going to abandon it. 

  


Also, there's one more thing I'd like to comment on. I've had more than one person say that this story is similar to something called "Just This" by Blue. All I can do is give all of you my word that I have not read that story and that I am not, in any way, shape or form, plagiarizing. This story and all its details are coming from my head. If there are similarities, there's unfortunately nothing I can do about that. I've known how this story was going to progress and end since its inception. So all I can do now is write it out. 

  


And when this story is done, I'll read "Just This."

  
  
  


Animus (Part 9)

  
  


The next morning, I wake up from a pleasantly untroubled sleep to find myself in a situation that I've never been in before - waking up with someone in my bed. 

  


Not to say that I haven't ever been with anyone before Draco. There have been many people I've had sex with. But this is the first time that I've actually woken up next to someone. It's good at first; warm and secure and unlike anything I've ever felt before. But then conflicting feelings begin to enter the picture. Aren't I supposed to hate this man? Yes, I'm supposed to, but I can't seem to feel that emotion. I keep remembering last night and the things I told him - dark things that I've never told anyone. 

  


And I remember the way he reacted. He didn't mock, scoff or laugh. 

  


He told me I was human. 

  


I said I was a monster and he said that I was human. 

  


A strange tightness closes around my throat and I find I have to pull away from him. I sit up and look down at his still slumbering form.

  


As if not having my arms wrapped around him will gain me some perspective. 

  


It doesn't; all it does it confuse me more. Because I miss his warmth. And I still don't know where the hatred went. 

  


"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's not polite to stare?" 

  


The soft voice breaking into the quiet startles me so much that I almost fall off the bed. I manage to regain my balance just in time to save myself a little pain and humiliation. Then I watch as Draco shifts onto his back and opens his eyes. 

  


"I didn't know you were awake," I gasp as I place a hand over my much-too-rapidly beating heart.

  


"Obviously," he says dryly, lifting one eyebrow; a gesture that is so quintessentially _him_ that it looks wrong on anybody else. 

  


We stare at each other for a while, during which time my heart resumes its normal pace and he seems to be contemplating me. Finally he says, "Look, Harry . . . " 

  


And at that, I bolt. Because any sentence that starts with "look Harry" can only mean one thing. That he wants to talk. And I am not prepared for that. 

  


I scramble off the bed and begin to step back toward the door. "I have to go," I say quickly. 

  


"Go? Where?" he asks in confusion. 

  


"To work," I say as if it should be obvious. I glance down at my wristwatch and see that it is about half past eight. It _is_ time for me to go, and I won't even be as tardy as I usually am. My boss will be so pleased. 

  


Draco sits up. "Oh. So you're leaving right now?"

"Yes, I really should." 

  


Two more steps back. Two more steps closer to escaping.

  


Some strange, intense look passes over his face, as if he's trying really hard to read my thoughts but is finding them out of reach. 

  


"I should get going, " I say again. Two more steps. The door is right behind me now.

  


He raises that eyebrow again. "So you've said." Expecting him to say something acerbic and sarcastic, I am surprised when he merely shrugs and turns away. "So go," he says. 

  


And I do. Surprised or not, I still feel incredibly relieved that I got away that easily. Moving quickly, I make it out the door and down the stairs, all the while thinking that I really, _really_ need some coffee.

  


I enter the kitchen and head straight for the coffee machine, trying to forestall any pesky, intruding thoughts about _what the hell is going on with my life_. No sooner do I lay my hands on it however, that a faint tapping sound catches my attention. Looking around the room, I soon spot the source of the noise. There is an owl tapping its beak on my kitchen window. 

  


Hermione's owl. 

Oh, this should be good. 

  


I open the window and let the owl in, carefully pulling the note off of her leg to read it. It's very concise and to the point. 

  


It seems that Hermione wants to check on her patient and she wants to know what time she should come over. 

  


For a brief moment I consider lying and replying that there is no good time to come over today. But all that will accomplish is to delay the inevitable. Because truthfully, I half-expected this was going to happen. Hermione is much too thorough and compassionate to not want to see Draco again. 

  


Accepting that I'll have to face this today, I grab a pen from the junk drawer and quickly scribble a note on a napkin saying that noon would be the best time since it's my lunch break. Then I attach it to the owl's leg and send her on her way. 

  


I watch the bird until she is no longer visible in the sky, then I turn my attention back to the coffee. 

  


Once the steaming mug is in my hands, I look upward. Looks like I'll have to face Draco again after all. It's only right to let him know he'll be having a visitor. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


The first few hours of work pass by excruciatingly slowly. But really, how can I possibly pay any attention to paperwork when I've got a million and one things buzzing around my skull? 

  


_Like the fact that Draco thinks I'm alcoholic. _

  


_Or the fact that I don't find that a completely fucking ridiculous idea. _

  


_Or the way he was kind to me. _

_And the way I wanted to stay with him last night, but not for sex. _

  


All these thoughts swirl around in my head until it feels like it's going to explode. Feeling overwhelmed, I let my head drop onto my desk, finding satisfaction in the small amount of pain that my action brings. 

But cheap satisfaction like that is always short-lived. An instant later, the thoughts are back again, and now some of them are demanding answers that I don't have. 

  


I sigh as I read over the same memo for the seventh time in a row. 

  


Things were so much simpler in the moonlight. 

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Noon comes round at last, and with it, time to face Hermione. I apparate home, shrug out of my robes and begin to pace the floor as I wait. 

  


As I make the rounds of my living room for the third time, a glint of glass catches my eye. I turn to the bar to see that all the bottles of alcohol are still on it, completely intact.

  


_So he didn't . . . _

  


As I stare at them in something akin to wonder, until a loud crack echoes throughout the room. I drag my eyes away from the bottles. It is painfully difficult to do. 

  


When I see Hermione standing there, all I can manage is a weak, "Hey," by way of a greeting. 

  


She smiles, although it's not an entirely comfortable one. "Hi, Harry." 

  


She comes toward me and we embrace warmly, and even when we part we still hold on to each other. 

  


"So, you probably want to see Draco," I say quickly, hoping to avoid any real conversation.

  


If she finds it odd that I called him by his first name, she doesn't mention it. 

  


"Yes, please," she answers, seeming to sense my discomfort and obviously not wanting to push things. 

  


I take her upstairs and knock on his door. He surprises me by opening it, fulling dressed. I guess I had expected him to be in bed, pretending to be in a world of agony or something. Then I remind myself that that's what the old Draco would have done. He's changed. Didn't I say so myself last night? 

  


Draco nods at Hermione and ignores me completely. Seems he's being pissy about my sudden departure this morning. 

  


"Granger," he says politely. 

  


"Malfoy," she says, just as politely. 

  


An uncomfortable silence begins to build as we three stare at each other. Finally, I clear my throat and say what needs to be said. "Well, I'll leave you two alone." 

  


Hermione turns toward me. "Yes, thank you." 

  


"I'll be downstairs if you need me." 

  


She nods and then Draco steps aside and she enters the room. One of them gives the door a push and it swings closed. 

  


Almost. 

  


It actually stays open just a few inches. 

  


I'm about to turn around and start downstairs, really I am, when something stops me. Actually, it's my own curiosity that stops me dead in my tracks. I could walk away, go down the stairs and wait patiently as I'm meant to. I could do that. And yet the need to know what is happening behind that door completely overpowers sensible thought. So I find myself pressing my back against the wall and sidling up as close to the door as I can safely get. Then I press my ear against the wall and listen for all I'm worth. 

  


Their voices, although slightly muffled and low, are intelligible. 

  


"You'll have to take off your clothes," I hear Hermione say. 

  


"Why, Granger, I didn't know you were that kind of girl." 

  


A loud sigh of frustration comes from my friend. "Just do it, Malfoy." 

  


"I am. I am," he mutters.

  


A minute of silence, then . . . "How's that?" Hermione asks in a businesslike manner. 

  


"That's fine." 

  


"Doesn't hurt?" 

  


"No." 

  


A sharp intake of breath. "That hurts." 

  


"I was afraid that wouldn't heal well. I'd better get some salve to put on that. Anywhere else that's still sore?" 

  


"Here, just a bit," he says. 

  


Wondering where he still hurts, I move imperceptibly closer to the door. 

  


Another minute or two of silence. Then . . . "So, he must have told you why I'm here?" 

  


"Who told me what?" Hermione asks, her voice confused and distracted. 

  


"Harry. He told you why I'm here." 

  


"Why do you say that?" 

  


"Because you can't look me in the eye, Granger." 

  


"Oh yes . . . he mentioned it . . . I mean, well he . . . "

  


"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you." 

  


What I wouldn't give to see Hermione's face right now. Draco Malfoy just apologized to her. She must think it's one of the signs of the apocalypse.

  


There's more silence and I have to assume she's gone back to putting on salve, or looking over the wounds or whatever else healers do. And then I hear a noise of frustration come from Hermione. She says, "I must have completely overlooked this one. Look how it's scarred up. This one will need more medicine." 

  


"Don't bother, Granger. It's not anything you missed. It's not recent." 

  


"Oh. What is?..." 

  


She doesn't get to complete her sentence. He lashes out at her, something dark in his voice. "It's from a knife, Granger. It came from a nice older gentleman who felt that sex was no good without a little blood and pain." 

  


"Oh, Malfoy, I'm . . . " 

  


But Draco cuts her off again. "You're probably enjoying this aren't you, Granger? Seeing me like this? Probably getting off on it. Tell me, do you want to be like your friend downstairs and have a go? I do women also, you know." 

  


"Malfoy, don't be so fucking stupid! God, no, I don't want you! And no, I am not enjoying this. Despite all the things you've done, I don't think anyone deserves this life. Not even you." 

  


A tense silence follows in which I hold my breath and pray that no one storms out of the room. Then, "I don't know why I said that," he says. 

  


"Forget it. Just let me finish up. I'm almost done."

  


More silence, followed by noises that indicate she is doing what she needs to do. Then come terse questions and quiet answers. 

  


Then . . . 

  


"All right, I'm done. You're healing well considering I'm not a true medi-witch. You should be completely fine in a couple days' time."

  


"Granger," I hear him say in a very soft, childlike voice. 

  


"Yes?" 

  


"Thank you. You've been very kind to me when you didn't have to be." 

  


"Well, I . . . " 

  


"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know." 

  


"Oh. Well, you're welcome." She sounds completely stymied and confused. I sympathize. I know that feeling well.

  


Now I begin to hear sounds like she's putting things away. Which means that they are done and I will be caught eavesdropping if I don't move. 

  


I rush down the stairs as quietly as I possibly can, then throw myself on the sofa and try to look innocent, as if I've been there the entire time. Not long after, Hermione makes her way down the stairs. 

  


She crosses the room and sits next to me as she gently takes my hands in hers. "I wish you would let me heal these." 

  


I look down. "I'm all right." I can see she doesn't quite buy it, so I change the subject. "How is he?" 

  


"He's doing well. He should be completely fine in a day or two." 

I nod. 

  


"Harry?" 

  


"Hmmm . . . "

  


"I know what kind of person Malfoy is. But I can't condone what you're doing here." 

  


Yes, here we go. It's true confessions time. Taking a deep breath, I plunge right in. "'Mione, he's a prostitute. _This_ is what he gets paid for." 

  


She shakes her head as if to dispel my words. "I'm not talking about the sex. I'm talking about you hurting him. I know he's hurt you in the past. I know he was a complete ass, but is this really the best way to deal with it?" 

  


"I'm not going to hurt him again." 

  


She looks at me as if she doesn't believe me. "Harry . . . "

  


"Hermione, it was the first and only time, I swear!" 

  


She shakes her head. "I want to believe you, I really do, but . . . " 

  


"Then do, Hermione. I don't lie to you." 

  


"You may not lie, but there is so much you keep from me."

  


"Hermione . . . " 

  


"I just . . . I worry about you so much, Harry. I know things aren't right with you and I want so much to help you. Both Ron and I do. But we don't know how." 

  


"Just . . . be my friend. Please. That's all I need."

  


"Always, I'm always your friend." 

  


"Then that's all I need right now."

  


She wants to argue, I can see it in her face, but I think she realizes she's not going to get anywhere. She squeezes my hands very gently and then leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek. I in turn place a soft kiss on her forehead. 

  


"So, you know I love you, right?" she asks. 

  


"And you know I love you." 

  


She lets go of my hands and glances up the stairs before turning her sharp gaze back to me. "And you two will be all right?" 

  


I know what she's really asking. "I won't hurt him anymore." 

  


She nods and smiles, although her smile is sad. I wonder if she believes me at all. "Owl me, ok?" 

  


"I will. We'll go out to dinner. You, me and Ron. Like old times." 

  


"Ron and I would like that."

  


She stands up. A hug, a few more words of farewell and she's gone.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


I return to work and then I manage to do something I haven't done in months. I stay late. 

Apparently avoidance and denial are great professional motivators. The boss is thrilled. He praises me incessantly. He even tells me to go home when he realizes that it's quitting time and I'm not going anywhere. I tell him I'm fine and to go on home himself. 

  


He does. 

  


When the great Harry Potter speaks . . . 

  


When I finally make it home, I find Draco curled up on the couch, still reading Pride and Prejudice. I notice that he's much farther along in it than last time. 

  


"You're late," he says without looking up. 

  


"I know. There was a lot of work today," I say as I take off my robes and throw them on the back of a chair. 

  


"What's left of dinner is in the refrigerator." 

  


"That's all right. I ate at the office," I say as I walk toward the stairs without making it seem like I'm hurrying. 

  


I'm two steps away from walking out of the room when he speaks again. "Why are you avoiding me, Harry?" 

  


_Bloody hell._

  


I stop, then laugh a little just to show him how preposterous that is. But I won't look at him. "I am not avoiding you." 

  


"You rush to work this morning, and rush back again as soon as Granger leaves. Then you stay late. You never stay late." 

  


"I had a lot of work to do."

  


"Really?" 

  


"Yes, really." 

  


"All right. If you say so," he says nonchalantly. 

  


My room, my little sanctuary is so close. So why am I turning around? Why am I sighing and saying, "All right. I'm avoiding you."? 

  


I see that the book is closed now. "Would you mind telling me why?"

  


I jam my hands into my pockets. "Because I don't know what the hell is going on here!" I say in frustration. 

  


"What are you talking about?" 

  


"I don't understand why I don't feel any hatred toward you right now. Or why I haven't felt it all day. This isn't normal. It just isn't!" 

  


He leans back and says, "Oh," quietly. 

  


"And you! I don't understand why you were so kind to me last night when you hate _me_ so much!"

  


His calm voice interrupts my building hysteria. "I don't hate you." 

  


Stopped in the middle of my tirade like that, I flounder. Struggling for any words, I finally manage to say, "What?" 

  


"I said I don't hate you," he repeats. 

  


Trying to regain my mental footing, I take a second to marshal my thoughts. "But I see it," I insist. "Every time I touch you, I see it in your eyes. You can't tell me I'm imagining that." 

  


"No, you're not but . . . look, I hated you for a very long time. And then the war started and we went our separate ways and, truth is, I didn't think about you all that much. Hating someone takes a lot of energy, Harry. And it was energy I couldn't afford to spare. Then, when I saw you again, the hatred came back, I guess. But not for long.

  


I guess mostly what you see is my complete and total loathing for the things I have to do."

  


I stare at him. "You said the hatred went away. Why?"

  


"Because I realized . . . "

  


"You realized that I was the most fucked up individual you'd ever set eyes upon." 

  


"Something like that, yeah." 

  


"Do you pity me?" I ask suddenly.

  


He surprises me by chuckling. "Pity you? Why should I pity you? You have the whole world within your grasp, all you have to do is wake up and realize it." He pauses to let the small bit of laughter die down. His face however, still shows his amusement. "If anyone is to be pitied around here, it's me. My life fucking sucks." 

  


I smile briefly. This happens every once in a while; he'll say something funny and then I have to try not to show that I find it funny. I don't know why I do it; I just do. I bite my lip and erase the smile, then I run my fingers through my hair and glance in the general direction of the bar. The first thing that pops into my mind are the first words that fall from my mouth. "I need a drink." 

  


He just looks at me. 

  


"Aren't you going try and stop me?" I ask in bewilderment.

  


Wait, did I just sound disappointed? 

  


"No. You're not violent tonight. You're more morose than anything. I think I'll be all right." 

  


Ok, so he's not going to try and stop me. Good. I've got carte blanche here with no worries about having to justify my actions. So why aren't I moving toward the bar? 

  


Because I'm not an alcoholic. 

  


Draco may be perceptive about some things, but he's wrong about this. He's got to be. 

  


Not that I need to prove anything to him. I would drink if I really wanted to. But maybe I don't. Maybe tonight I don't really want to after all. 

  


Deciding that I've had enough of this inner monologue shit, I turn away from the bar. It is almost physically painful to do so but I don't allow myself to think about that. 

  


"I'm going to . . . go upstairs, I guess," I say somewhat shakily. 

  


He turns back to his book. "Good night then."

  


"Good night." 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

  


I don't know how long I'm in my room, staring at a magazine that I'm not reading, then looking at a television program that I'm not watching. Time crawls, and then it flies, then crawls again as I try to pull my thoughts away from the man living in my house. 

  


I finally give up on the television programs and the magazine. I get ready for bed by discarding my clothes and getting into pajama bottoms. 

  


I am not, however, walking toward my bed. 

  


As I pass through my doorway and into the hallway beyond, I tell myself that if he is not in his room that I will turn around and go to sleep. 

  


I try very hard to make myself believe this. 

  


I reach his closed door and rap on it lightly. 

  


He opens the door immediately, almost as if he were waiting behind it for me. His eyes bore into mine; he says absolutely nothing at all.

  


I begin to speak. "I..." 

  


"You've come to get what you're paying for," he finishes for me. 

  


I can't deny his words, so I don't bother trying. 

  


Instead I nod and whisper, "Come with me?"

  


He nods and follows me to my room. As he steps inside, he discards his clothing before I have a chance to tell him to. 

  


Usually, I would turn off all lights and leave us in the dark. But not tonight. Tonight I want to see. 

  


Carefully, I lay him down on the bed and climb atop him. 

  


Curious, I feel around his body until I feel it. The scar that Hermione found. My fingers trail gentle lines across it, feeling the puckered skin. Funny how I never noticed it before. But then again, I've never really looked at him before, have I? 

  


"Curiosity killed the cat," he says in smoky voice. 

  


"What?" I ask as I pull my fingers away. 

  


"You heard about it earlier and you just couldn't resist seeing it for yourself, could you?" 

  


There's no need to ask what he's talking about. It's painfully obvious. 

  


"How did you know I was there?" I ask as I fight to keep from blushing.

  


He smiles. "As if you could ever outsly a Slytherin."

  


"I don't think outsly is a word," I say. 

  


"It is when I say it." 

  


My lips break into a smile and this time I don't bother trying to suppress it. 

  


And then the scar, and made up words, and everything in between is forgotten because I'm kissing him. This is only the second time my lips have touched his. And this time there is no violence in it at all. There is no tenderness, but there is an almost overwhelming need and fire that obliterates everything else. He returns the kiss and arches up into me, and I am lost. Completely, utterly lost. 

  


My hands slide down his sides, stopping at his hips. I grab him, hard, enjoying the small gasp that escapes from his lips into mine. 

  


I stop the kiss to whisper in his ear. "I want you." 

  


"I know," he whispers back. 

  


"God, I want you so bad," I say, more to myself than to him, as if I have to convince myself that this feeling is real. Yes, I have wanted to hurt him, and humiliate him and own him. But I have never actually wanted him. Not like this. 

  


I kiss along his jaw line, and across his pale throat, and all the while my hands are wandering over his body. There's no agenda, just to feel as much of him as I can. 

  


As my hands continue to roam, I look down at his face, at his eyes so gray, so pale. I have to wonder at the fact that I don't want them closed this time. This time I want to see. I want him to see.

  


I somehow manage to get rid of the pajama bottoms, then I guide myself into him, intoxicated by how warm and tight he is and by the breathy sounds he can't help but make. 

  


I move within him, and just like that - all thought is gone. 

  


I can't say how long I dance within him, because this kind of ecstacy doesn't know time. I do know that eventually it builds until climax can't be denied, no matter how much I'd like it to last forever. 

  


I lean down, my face against his throat as I groan and shudder into him. 

  


After a few seconds, I pull out of him, and lay on my back next to him. I run shaking hands through my sweat-soaked hair, enjoying the after-tremors of pleasure that are still somehow running through my body. 

  


I think that was possibly the best orgasm I've ever had in my life. 

  


I close my eyes and try to burn the feeling of it into my memory. 

  


A minute or two passes by, and his breathing slows, as does mine. Then I feel the mattress move and I know he is getting up. My eyes still closed, I reach out and grab his wrist. "Where are you going?" 

  


"I'm leaving. Like I always do." 

  


"Stay." 

  


"What?" he asks. 

  


"Please. Just stay." 

  


"Why?" 

  


"Because I asked you to. Isn't that enough?" 

  


"When I first got here, you couldn't stand to have me near you after you were done." 

  


"Things change," I say. 

  


"Do they?" 

  


"Don't get philosophical on me. Just stay." 

  


"You kissed me." 

  


"Yes." 

  


"You didn't hurt me." 

  


"No." 

  


"I don't understand." 

  


"You're talking too much." 

  


Silence, then the mattress dips as he lays back down. 

  


"I'll stay." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Author's notes: As always, thanks to all the readers who leave reviews. I honestly don't think I can put into words how grateful I am that you take the time to give me feedback. Thank you. 

Animus (Part 10)

So once again, I find myself falling into a pattern with Draco. Except this time around, things are just a bit . . . well . . . different. 

This time around I go to work, come home and we eat dinner. Sometimes we go our separate ways for the remainder of the evening - he does his own thing, and I do mine. Sometimes, we spend the entire evening together; passing the time watching movies on the telly or some such other pursuit in rather companionable silence. 

But no matter how the beginning of the evening goes, when it's time for bed, we always end up going upstairs together, and Draco always stays with me til morning. 

I've learned some things about Draco during the course of these past few nights. For instance, I've learned that he snores very, very softly. I've learned that he tends to hog the bed - and the covers. I've also learned that he is prone to nightmares. 

They seem to be rather run-of-the-mill terrors. His breath quickens, he flails around a little bit, and he mutters things like, "no" and "please." These things invariably wake me, and I find myself unable to go back to sleep until his dreams have run their course. A couple of times, I have attempted to give him some sort of comfort; mostly by patting his shoulder or his back. Awkward, yes, but I feel I have to do something. I don't know if it does any good, he always seems to settle down quickly, with or without my interference. 

It's during these moments of wakefulness on my part that I wonder what he dreams about. I wonder if he dreams about the turn his life has taken and what he must do to stay alive. Or perhaps he dreams about me. Maybe I am his nightmare. Or perhaps his dreams consist of something completely different - something foreign that I'll never know about or understand. 

But whatever the reason for them, they never last too long, nor do they ever awaken Draco. Or they didn't anyway - until last night. Last night he had a very different dream. 

It started out in the normal fashion, the quickened breathing, the tossing and turning, the soft moaning of words. But then came something completely unexpected. So unexpected that for a moment I believed that I had imagined it. But then he repeated his words and they were nothing less than a heart-wrenching plea pouring from his lips. 

_"No mother. Please . . . no."_

I lay quietly in the dark, feeling incredibly intrigued and just a tad bit voyeuristic. He continued to half-whisper, half-moan those words, and words much like them, until he screamed them. His nightmare ended then, as he sat bolt upright in bed, his hands clawing desperately at the air. 

I sat up as well, although I had absolutely no idea what to do. I settled for placing a hand on his arm and whispering, "Calm down, Draco. It was just a dream." 

His body relaxed then, although I don't think it was from my quick touch. He then mumbled something that sounded like, 'I know,' and flopped back down on the bed, almost instantly asleep again. 

It took me awhile to get back to sleep after that, and even then my sleep was uneasy. My thoughts were fixated on what I'd heard - and to be perfectly honest, Gryffindor curiosity was killing me. 

That was hours ago and I haven't been to sleep since. I've been sitting here, in the dark, waiting for time to pass and Draco to wake. And finally, the night has lifted and the morning sun begins to stream in through the windows. And Draco opens his eyes. 

He shuts them once only to open them wider an instant after. Then he yawns and stretches languidly, arching his body into it like he has all the time in the world for this pleasure. It's only once he allows his body to go limp again that he seems to remember that I'm here. 

"No work today, huh?" he asks. 

"Not on Saturday," I reply absently. 

He stretches again and I am reminded of a huge cat; all sinewy grace and cocky attitude. 

Forcing myself to concentrate on the task at hand, I say his name. 

"Hmm?" he says by way of response. 

"What did you dream about last night?" 

He looks at me, his gaze casual. "I don't remember. Why?" 

"It's just that . . . you said something in your sleep last night. Something I've never heard you say before." 

"Really?" he asks. The casual manner in which he says this matches his gaze to a tee, but it still strikes a false note. 

I take a deep breath, feeling as if I'm about to take a huge plunge into turbulent waters. And well, actually . . . I am, aren't I? "You talked about your mother," I say. 

"Really?" he asks again, albeit with a touch of wariness in his voice this time. "What did I say?" 

"You were calling out for her mostly. You sounded very upset." 

He shrugs his shoulders quickly and places a hand on the covers. "Funny, I don't remember a thing." 

He makes a move to take the covers off, but I reach out and grab his wrist before he can do it. "Tell me what happened to your mother," I say. 

"No," he shoots back as he tries to shake my hand off. But I am not going anywhere. 

"Tell me what happened." 

Now he tries to pull away, but my hand still doesn't budge. " I thought we agreed that we weren't going to talk about this. Remember? You were there," he says. 

"Draco . . . " 

"Drop it." 

"No! Just tell me." 

Yanking back furiously, he manages to pull his arm away from me and jump to his feet. I rise up to my knees on the mattress. "Where are you going?" I ask. 

He grabs his pajama bottoms off of the floor and tugs them on, managing to maintain his balance even though he is moving so quickly. "I'm leaving!" he shouts at me. "I warned you. I said if you ever asked me again, I would leave. You asked. I'm leaving!" 

He finishes pulling them up over his hips and then he takes off for the door. 

And here, now, is the moment of truth. I could let him walk out the door. We had a deal, and I broke it. I should expect nothing else. And then there is the thought - why am I pushing so hard anyway? Why don't I just let it go? But the moment is already passing, it is almost lost and I have to make a decision. No time to question it or think on it. It must be made now. 

And my decision is to move. I, unlike him, don't give a shit about modesty right now. I jump out of the bed and run for the door, getting to it just as Draco is opening it. Placing my hand high on the door, I slam it shut. 

Draco doesn't turn to look at me. He just sighs and looks up at the heavens. "What the hell?" 

No going back now. I'm neck-fucking-deep in the turbulent water. "Tell me what happened to your mother." 

"Get your fucking hand off the door," he says as he yanks on the doorknob, managing to open the door just a bit.

"Not until you tell me," I say as I slam it back closed. 

"Fuck you!" he says as he whirls around and pushes me with both his hands. I probably should have been expecting this, but I wasn't and I very ungracefully flail about for a moment before falling flat on my behind. 

He stares at me for just one quick second before turning back around and placing both his hands on the doorknob and turning it open. 

But I am fast. Damn, am I fast. Fueled by an unnameable urgency, I jump up and run toward him. Not even bothering with closing the door this time, I throw myself at him, causing him to slam against the door and the door to shut once again. 

"Have you lost your mind?" he yells. 

"Tell me about your . . . " I begin to say, but my words are cut off by _his_ thunderous shout. 

_"She's fucking dead, all right! She's dead! Is that what you wanted to hear? Happy now?" _

It's funny; I've heard of time standing still but I've never experienced it before. Not until now. It's a most amazing thing really, to see time slow and then crystallize until it becomes hard as glass. To feel as if you're suspended in time within this glass and all you can do is wait until it shatters. I can't say how long we stand there, looking at each other, both of us breathing as if we'd just run a mile, but it seems like a lifetime. 

"I am so sorry," I finally whisper. And it surprises me that I am. I really, truly am. 

And just like that, the moment _is_ shattered and time moves once again. 

Draco stares at me, incredulous. "You . . . what . . . ?" he manages to say before his stare turns hard and a vicious look winds itself across his face. He looks as if he could rip me apart with his bare hands. 

I have time for one thought only before he launches himself at me. 

_He doesn't look so beautiful now._

That's it. The thought flashes across my mind and he is on me, knocking me down to the ground and falling with me. I land heavily on my back with him atop me, straddling me, his hands somehow wrapped in my hair. They pull at it, shaking my head as if the goal here is to dislodge it from my neck. 

And somewhere, through the pain and the utter surprise of it all, words manage to make their way to my ears.

"Fuck you! I take it all back. I fucking hate you! I hate you!"

And the attack on my head continues. 

It is at this moment that thought and reason desert me, and I am left with only pure instinct. And my instinct when being beaten is to fight back. 

There is no thought at all - just the tightening of my hand into a fist and the flying of that fist through the air. I think I hit my intended target, I'm not really sure, and before I have time to register it, I'm already throwing another punch. 

And Draco, who is still screaming loudly about how much he loathes me, doesn't miss a beat as he lets go of my hair and begins to return the punches in earnest. 

I cannot say how long this little battle of ours goes on; I really can't, for I am truly caught up in the rage and heat of it. 

Until I have my epiphany. 

Maybe epiphany is too strong a word for it. All I know is that one moment I'm fighting for all I'm worth and the next moment I am flashing back to the night when I beat Draco almost to death. And just like that I know that this can't continue - that this isn't right and it's not what Draco needs. 

But neither do I need to be his punching bag.

So I wrap my arms around him and pull us into a sitting position. And then I cling to him for dear life. Oh and how he struggles against me. He tells me he hates me, tells me to go to hell, to go fuck myself and a hundred other insults that I can't keep track of. And the whole while he is squirming like a worm on a hook. 

But I've got him pretty well trapped, with his arms pinned to his sides and his legs caught underneath him. And I'm not letting go. 

Eventually, his struggles begin to weaken and words he shouts begin to slur and quiet. And then soon after, the struggles stop altogether and his body begins to shake. It's only when I feel wetness on my chest that I realize that he is crying. 

"You bastard," he says brokenly between sobs. 

I nod my head, in complete agreement. After all, who am I to argue? I did this. I pushed him to this. 

"I hate you," he says although the words have no heat behind them. 

"I know," I reply. 

He nods and continues to tremble and sob in my arms. And I continue to hold him tightly, feeling somehow as if I'm the only thing holding him together. Silly, I know. 

I don't utter a word, don't move a muscle until his shaking subsides and all I can hear from him are slight sniffles. Then I pull away from him, and place my hands on either side of his face, lifting it up so he looks at me. 

"How did she die, Draco?" I whisper. 

He scoots away from me and wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. When he looks back up me, I can see that they are red and puffy and that they contain a dazed look. 

"She killed herself," he says dully. 

My heart drops down into my stomach with a resounding thud. Not what I was expecting. Not at all. 

"How did she . . . what happened?" I ask. 

He opens his mouth as if he's about to answer, then closes it slowly. His eyes lose their faraway look. "I can't believe I'm actually considering talking to you about this." 

"Well, why not me?" I ask. 

He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "What? You think we can bond over dead mothers?" 

I nod slowly, showing him that I'm perfectly serious. "Yes." 

He looks unconvinced, then turns away and looks at the ground as if searching it for something. Then he looks at me. 

"I told you what our life was like - how we were treated. My mother . . . she just couldn't deal with it. She couldn't deal with being treated like shit on the bottom of someone's shoe. And then there was the fact that she'd lived her whole life with magic and that it was suddenly taken away from her. She hated living like a squib, or worse yet, a Muggle. She was so sad, all the time." He pauses. "Maybe I should have seen it coming, I don't know . . . "

He shakes his head. "Anyway, the day it happened, I had gone out looking for work. Came up empty-handed of course. When I got back to the little hovel we were staying in, she was . . . she was already dead. She'd slashed her wrists. Killed herself like a Muggle." This last sentence said so quietly that I barely hear him. 

I sit back for a moment, trying to take it all in. Then I whisper, "Draco, I really am sorry. No one should have to go through that." 

"I was so angry with her at first," he says, ignoring my comment. "I didn't understand how she could do that. How could she leave me? She was all I had left, Harry. All I had in the entire world. And she left me." 

Twin tears drop from his eyes to slide down his face, but he doesn't bother wiping them away. It's only when they have reached his throat that I say, "Not everyone is as strong as you are, Draco." 

"Strong?" he says, and it comes out strangled and weak. "No. Just too stupid and stubborn to know when to quit." 

I can't contradict him because for all I know he's right. I've come to realize that of the two of us, he's a little better at this human nature thing than I am. 

But I don't know what else to say. I've already said I was sorry. Other than that, I'm really not very good at comforting others. Words don't come easily to me, mostly because for the first ten years of my life nobody gave a shit as to what I had to say. So I lamely settle for saying, "Why don't you get back in bed and I'll make us something to drink?" 

"Scotch?" he asks. 

"I was thinking more along the lines of tea." 

"I think I need scotch right now. If that's ok with you." 

"What about . . . ?" 

He anticipates my question and dismisses it with a wave of his hand. "I don't care about that right now. I don't care if you drink yourself into a coma or if you beat me to a bloody pulp. I just need a drink." 

I stand up and hold out my hand, then pull him up when he takes it. He heads toward the bed wearily and I move to put on some clothes before going downstairs to fetch the drinks. 

Standing at the bar I grab two glasses and am about to fill them when the enormity of what he just told me hits. His mother . . . dead. Suicide. And he's the one who found her. What that must have been like. Finding her covered in her own blood, most likely. 

My hands begin to shake as an image forms in my mind. Slashed wrists . . . all the blood there must have been. Narcissa must have been swimming in it. 

Always so much blood. 

Always surrounded by it. 

Drowning in it . . . 

I blink hard, then shake my head in an effort to clear it. To get rid of that horrid imagined picture that is trying so hard to meld with all the real horrors I've seen in my lifetime. 

I decide to forego filling the glasses. I grab them and a full bottle of scotch and head back upstairs. 

When I walk back in the room, I see that he sitting up in bed, waiting for me. His new bruises stand out against the paleness of his skin. It reminds me of my own and they instantly begin to throb. Ignoring them for the moment, I sit down on the edge of the mattress and pour his drink, then mine. He takes his gratefully and takes a long drink. 

"I've never told anyone about my mother. No one. Not even Father, " he says. His voice is normal enough, but in his eyes I see a challenge. Is he expecting me to mock him?

_And I never told anyone but you about Voldemort._

I think this but I don't say it. Instead I say, "Everyone has to talk to somebody, Draco." 

He nods, then takes another long swallow. "I just never thought it would be you." 

"I am sorry, you know." 

"For what? For pushing me or for what happened to my mother?" 

I shrug. "A little of both I guess."

We drink in silence until our glasses our empty and then I refill them and we drink some more. He motions for a third refill and I oblige although I do not fill my own. I don't even want to chance becoming violent now, knowing that would ruin everything.

Ruin everything? 

Did I just think that? 

"Why did she leave me, Harry?" Draco asks suddenly, distracting me from my own thoughts.

He sounds so much like a lost, little boy that my heart actually aches for him. 

Apparently we _are_ bonding over dead mothers. 

"I don't know, Draco," I say honestly. 

"Didn't she love me enough to stay with me?" he asks me, voice cracking, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. 

"Draco," I begin to say, but there is nothing _to_ say. 

I'm not good at giving comfort. I'm really not. But I feel I have to try. So I set my glass down and wrap my arms around him and hold him as gently and tightly as I possibly can. 

He all but falls into me, sobbing in earnest now. 

So I whisper, "Shh. Shh," against his ear. 

I can only hope I'm doing this right. 

  



	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes: The following is a bit of an author's rant in response to a review. Please feel free to skip ahead if you don't give a shit. 

1. I am a 33 year old woman who has engaged in anal sex. More than once. With more than one person - although not at the same time - and although I don't consider myself an expert, I do know what I am writing about. 

2. Pre-cum works very well as a lubricant. 

3. I don't believe I have ever had Harry enter Draco so brutally that he would tear significantly. Small tears resulting in spotting would be about the worst he'd suffer.

4. Draco has been doing this for about a year now - his body is accustomed to this. Refer to # 3.

There, rant over. If anyone wants to discuss this further, please feel free to email me at Isolde13@cox.net. Also to answer a couple of other questions...

Dumbledore died in the war. I think that was in the first chapter. Snape is nowhere to be found because I do think he would have helped Draco. So I shipped him off to America - although I never actually wrote that down. 

This is an R rated story because the two main sites that house the story do not accept NC-17. Not that I'm all that great at writing sex scenes anyway. 

Ummm...I think that's all. Sorry this took so long to get out - it was a hard one. This is the penultimate chapter, so...only one more to go! Thank goodness, cause this fic is killing me.

Animus (Part 11)

So what does it say about me as a person that I'm starting to believe my arrangement with Draco isn't a good thing three days before it's supposed to end? Is that good, bad or indifferent? I don't have an answer, although it's all I've been able to think about lately. Funny that I should be haunted by a conscience now - after all this time - when I was starting to think I didn't have one anymore. 

It is now nighttime, and I am incredibly tired, although I haven't done anything particularly strenuous all day. I've obviously been doing too much of my thinking at night. I sit down on the bed heavily, then let myself fall backward on it, pulling Draco with me as I go. Maybe tonight I'll be able to let go of these thoughts long enough to get some decent sleep. 

"You have to stop treating me like this, Harry," Draco says suddenly and I freeze in mid-snuggle against my pillow. 

He sounds absolutely furious with me and I don't even bother to try to hide my surprise. Treat him like what? I've been on my best behavior around him for days. Ever since finding out about Narcissa, ever since rediscovering what a moral dilemma is - I've been the perfect gentleman. 

"Like what?" I ask, and I know I sound as completely dumbfounded as I feel. 

"You haven't touched me in days." 

Feeling too tired to truly think about the meaning behind those words, I look down at my arm draped over his waist and say, "I'm touching you now." 

"That's not what I mean," he says as he sits up in bed and pushes my arm away from him. "I mean you haven't had sex with me in days. Since I told you about my mother."

Oh God. I was so hoping to avoid this until I had my feelings sorted out. I was so hoping to avoid this _period_. "I just thought that..." I start to say. 

"Don't do this to me, Harry. Don't treat me like this," he says, and through his anger I detect a note of desperation; almost of pleading. 

"Like what?" I ask, and I am truly, utterly confused. Haven't I been doing the right thing here? What has he possibly got to complain about?

"Like I'm made of glass or something. Like I'm fragile," he growls at me. He looks down at me and fixes me with an icy glare. _"Don't. Pity. Me." _

'_So that's what this is all about_,' I think as the metaphorical light bulb turns on and I'm allowed to see. I follow his lead and sit up, then move my body so that I'm slightly in front of him. I stay like this, trying to decide what to say - I wasn't expecting this reaction - I thought he'd be thrilled that I wasn't touching him. Should I explain?

I should. Of course, I will. It's obviously very important to him that I do so. But just as I decide to speak, my words catch in my throat. And instead of trying to force them out, I find myself discarding them and following the growing compulsion to touch him. He said it himself, I haven't touched him in days. And I do miss it; oh so much. I reach over and place my thumb against the soft satin of his lips. "You're so proud, aren't you?" I whisper. 

He looks at me, gaze still cold, and he doesn't say a single word. 

"I used to hate that about you," I continue as my thumb begins to make lazy circles across his lips. "One of the many things I hated about you - how you used to walk through the school as if you owned it. As if you were better than everybody else." My hand drifts upwards and now I am caressing his cheek with my thumb, careful not to disturb the bruise that decorates it. He exhales slowly and continues to look at me, and I see that his look of anger is slowly being replaced by one of curiosity. "But now," I say, "now, I guess I can't help but admire it." 

He blinks slowly, looking for all the world like a man caught in a dream. "It's what keeps you going, isn't it? It's what keeps you so strong," I say and as I'm speaking the words, I realize how true they are. 

He blinks again and then sighs softly. "I don't know."

I continue as if he hadn't answered me. "And that sense of pride is so deeply ingrained in you that you would rather let me touch you, have sex with you - than pity you." 

His grey eyes harden just a little. "What's your point, Harry?" 

"Is it true?" 

He shrugs, turns his face away slightly. I drop my hand into my lap. "Maybe," he says, then laughs somewhat brokenly. "Oh God, when you put it like that it sounds so sick." 

I manage a small smile despite the fact that I suddenly feel very sad. Placing my hands on his chest I push down gently and watch as he understands the gesture and lies down. When he looks up at me I see a sort of relief on his face; like he thinks everything is back to normal. Like he thinks we'll have a nice, quick shag and re-establish our twisted little boundaries and forget this ever happened. 

"I don't pity you," I finally say as I lean down to whisper in his ear. His cheek, against mine, feels much too warm.

"No?" he breaths out. 

"No." 

"Then what?" 

I prop myself on my elbows slightly and turn my head so that we are eye to eye. I pause to think as I tangle my fingers in his hair. "Empathy - definitely. A bit of respect. I don't know. Look, I'm not going to deny that I feel differently toward you, but it's not a negative." 

He shakes his head, inadvertently moving my hands along with him. "I just don't understand. You want me, I know you do." His eyes briefly flick down the length of our bodies and I actually have the grace to blush. I know exactly what he's talking about. I am quite hard. This seems to happen whenever I'm in close proximity to Draco lately, which is so ironic considering that at first I almost had to force myself to touch him. 

"I do want you," I reply honest. 

"But you don't want to...?" He trails off as the look of confusion on his face is replaced by one of knowing and understanding. "Oh. Attack of conscience, Harry?" he asks, smirking just a bit.

God, did he hit that right on the head. And hearing him say it has the same effect as getting splashed by cold water. I shrug, pushing myself away, suddenly feeling the need to put some distance between us. "That's as good a thing to call it as any." I get up from the bed and walk towards the dresser that sits against the wall. Behind me, I can hear the whispers of cloth against skin that tell me he's sitting up.

I stop in front of the dresser and stand there, fighting an internal war with myself. Should I tell him the things that have been running through my head? Should I be honest? I trusted him once before and he didn't betray that trust...So maybe...

"Do you know why I brought you here?" I ask without turning around. "Why I came up with this idea?" 

"Yeah, to hurt me," Draco replies simply. 

Again, he's hit it right on the head. I choke out a mirthless laugh as I lay my hand against the dresser's cool wooden surface. "Yeah, to hurt you. I saw you there and it was all so perfect. A chance to get back at you for all the shit you put me and my friends through; all your stupid, cruel jokes and tricks." 

He doesn't respond and the ensuing silence hangs heavy in the air. I begin to draw intricate, invisible patterns into the wood as I ponder whether or not to go further. 

I finally decide to finish what I started. "But that's not really what I did, is it? I took it _all_ out on you. Everything. I took out every awful aspect of my life on you because you were here and you were convenient and...easy." 

I continue to stare down at the wood, thinking that if my fingers could produce colors, I would have had a masterpiece by now. "God," I say and I can hear that my voice contains just a tinge of hysterical amazement. "All this time, I've been punishing you for something you didn't even do."

For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my harsh breathing. Draco, on the other hand, is so silent, he might as well be a phantom. My body tenses, and my hands curl up into fists as I wait to see what will happen next. 

"Harry, I know that. I've known that from the very beginning," Draco says softly, almost kindly. 

He's known? All this time, he's known? What the fuck is he, a bloody psychic now? I didn't even know! Jesus, have I been that blind? "Then why did...why have you stayed?" I ask, finally turning around, my voice wavering only slightly. 

He moved while my back was turned. He's standing up by the end of the bed; closer now. He shrugs and shakes his head. "We had an agreement, Harry. I'm getting something out of this too, remember?" 

"The money," I say flatly. 

"Yes, the money."

I nod to show I understand. I knew the money would be a powerful motivator, that's why I tempted him with it. 

I run my fingers through my hair, taking time to try and collect my thoughts before I say anything else. Once I begin to speak, I say each word slowly and with deliberation. What I'm about to say is the culmination of days worth of thinking and analyzing and I want to make sure I get it right. "I think I'm just now realizing what a shitty agreement we have. Because hurting you doesn't change anything. It doesn't give me back my parents, or the friends that I've lost. It doesn't give me back my life." I take a deep breath and exhale shakily. "And it doesn't make the pain go away."

And then some sort of strangled, mewling noise makes its way out of my mouth just as my entire body begins to tremble. _It must be the exhaustion catching up with me_, I think as I fall to the floor. 

_And it couldn't possibly be that you just unburdened your soul_ _to this man?_, a strange little voice asks from inside my head.

I land easily and immediately draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, hugging them to me. I close my eyes and drop my head to my knees, going as fetal as I can. Maybe if I press hard enough, this stupid shaking will stop. 

But it doesn't, and I sit here, on the floor, trembling like a child while waiting to hear his next words. 

"Well, I was wondering how long it was going to take you to figure that out," Draco whispers slowly from somewhere out of the darkness.

I open my eyes and look up to see that he is much closer to me now. If I reached out, my fingers would ghost upon his skin. 

"I don't want to hurt you anymore, Draco. That's the bottom line. I just don't want to hurt you anymore." 

He folds him arms across his chest and tilts his head to the side, as if trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Finally he asks cautiously, "So our agreement is over, then?" 

I nod. "Your end of it, yes. I'd like it if you stayed for the remainder of the month. But if you don't want to, I'll understand. I'll pay you either way. And you don't have to do anything with me or for me..." A wishful thought jumps into my head and I blurt it out before I can censor myself. "Unless you want to..." I say somewhat timidly.

He laughs a little, but it does not sound mean-spirited. "Nothing against you, Harry. You're a good enough looking bloke and I'm sure you're that when you actually give a damn about the person you're sleeping with, that you're absolutely marvelous. But...sex is... not a pleasant thing for me anymore." 

"I'm sorry about that. I..." 

"Don't bother apologizing. That came about long before you entered into the picture." 

"It's never, ever good for you is it? You never enjoy it at all?" 

"No. It used to be. It's...not...anymore," he says simply, if not a little sadly. 

Nodding, I ask, "So will you stay or are you going to run for the hills?" 

He shrugs. "I don't know. I suppose three days won't kill me." He waits a beat before saying, "I can stay." 

Relief floods through me at hearing those words. It may be pathetic and completely illogical, but I really don't want him to go. 

A moment of awkward silence ensues, where we both just sort of stare at each other, both of us probably trying to figure out what to say next. After a minute, he shuffles his feet and murmurs, "So..." 

But I cut him off before he can go any further. Not entirely sure whether I'm saying the right thing, I blurt out, "Listen, it's getting late, why don't you...ummm...sleep in the other room tonight? I mean, it's a perfectly good bed, why let it go to waste?"

Draco arches his eyebrow. "Really?" 

"Yeah," I say as I wave my hand in the air and try to sound casual, when really what I'm thinking is that it's the least I can do for him after how I've treated him. 

"I have to admit it would be nice to have a bed all to myself," he says. 

"Well, there you go then." I pause for a moment, then softly say, "Goodnight, " before lowering my head again. The shaking has subsided, but the exhaustion has returned ten-fold and all I want to do now is close my eyes and try to forget that reality exists. 

With my head bent to my knees, I can't see him, yet I know that he has walked over to me and is now standing above me. I can feel him, you see. And it is a very strange and disconcerting thing to think that I am so attuned to him that I feel his very presence.

I lift my head.

He bends down toward me and my breath catches in my chest. A shaky little exhale escapes my lips and then...I can no longer breathe. I watch in fascination as his face continues to draw closer to me and I close my eyes only moments before his lips settle on mine. 

It is a chaste kiss really, and yet somehow it fills my body with more heat than I have ever felt in my life. But it is such a good burning that I never want it to end. Without thinking I try to lift my arm so that I can touch him; bring him closer, so that I can bring this beautiful, infuriating, enigmatic creature closer. But I can't seem to move. Can't move, can't breathe, all I can do is feel. 

And oh God, his kiss feels like...salvation...forgiveness...redemption. 

And then, just like that, he moves and we are no longer together. 

The loss of heat is so brutally intense that the shivering begins anew. 

"Why did you do that?" I whisper. 

On his face is the ghost of a mischievous smile. "Because I wanted to." 

I open my mouth, try to think of something to say, and fail miserably. 

He straightens up completely. "Goodnight, Harry." 

And before I can say anything in return, he is gone. 

I touch my fingers to my lips and feel the lingering warmth there. 

It is the kindest kiss I have ever received. 

And to think that Draco Malfoy was the one to bestow that gift upon me. 

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Author's notes: Author's notes are at the bottom of the fic. 

Animus (Part 12)

  


Staccato little moments; that's what this last day is made up of. Staccato little moments that wind together to make up the last 24 hours that I will ever spend with Draco.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

This morning, I make the effort to go to work, only to end up staring at the four walls that surround me. I don't even bother trying to hide the fact that I'm doing nothing productive at all. What would be the point? If my boss wants to fire me, then let him fire me. I would certainly respect him a lot more if he did. 

But he doesn't fire me; choosing instead to ignore what he must see as pure laziness. 

I'm not sure how much time passes before I finally decide to call it quits for the day. Don't know why I even came here today anyway, I should have known that my mind wouldn't be on my work; as if it ever really is, even on my best days. 

With a quick nod and a mumbled excuse about not feeling well, I leave the office as quickly as I can. My first thought is to go home, but I decide against that almost immediately. I'm not ready to face the awkwardness that comes from being around Draco Malfoy these days. It's the oddest thing - since the other night the playing field that we've always interacted on has changed so dramatically that neither one of us knows how to act around the other. We both agree that there is no longer hatred between us - but neither of us seems to know what the hatred has been replaced with. But perhaps I shouldn't speak for Draco. I can only say that I have no idea what the hatred has been replaced with. And if he knows, he's not sharing. 

So instead of going home, I apparate to what I know to be a safe, deserted place, discard my robe and take a taxi down into the shopping district. 

My initial plan is to grab something to eat and keep myself busy by doing some shopping for myself. Yet instead of buying for me, I keep finding things that would be great for Draco.

I think it's at this point that I realize I have lost my mind. 

Yet I steadfastly refuse to actually _buy_ anything for him . . . that is until I come across something that seems so perfectly appropriate that I just can't walk away from it. 

All right, so I was wrong before. It is at _this_ point that I lose my mind. 

After making the purchase, I decide that I've stalled long enough. It is time to go home. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I step into the living room to see Draco in one of his favorite spots - curled up on the sofa, with his nose buried in a book. 

He doesn't seem to notice me, so I clear my throat and say, "Another book?"

_Brilliant, Harry, brilliant_. I seem to have such a knack for stating the obvious. 

He looks up only briefly before returning his gaze to the page. "Uh huh." 

I sneak a peek at the title. "Wuthering Heights?"

"I like the classics," he says, this time without looking up. "I'm trying to read as much of it as I can before tomorrow." 

I consider what he means by this, then, without really thinking, blurt out, "You can have it." 

He marks his place in the book with his finger, closes it and looks up. "What?" 

"You can have it . . . if you want it that is. I don't read much anyway." 

His brows knit together. "Why do you have so many books in your library then, if you don't read them?" 

I shrug. "They came with the house." 

"I see," he says as he chuckles slightly. Then, "Yeah, that'd be nice, thanks." 

Then silence descends upon us as we each take a moment to look the other over. As I watch him, I can see his gaze traveling the length of my body and stopping at the suitcase that I'm clutching in my hand. My one purchase. "What is that?" he asks curiously. 

"Oh, this," I say, trying to sound casual. "It's nothing really, I just remembered that you didn't have anything to pack your clothes in." 

"So you bought me a suitcase?" he asks in a bewildered tone.

"Just . . . think of it as a going away present." 

"But I don't have anything to put in it," he says as he shakes his head. 

"Well . . . the clothes you've been wearing all this time. They're yours." 

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh. I...I didn't want to presume . . . " he says. And suddenly he sounds, not like the man he is, but like a shy, uncertain little boy. Strangely enough, I find myself fighting the creeping urge to wrap my arms around him and attempt that comforting thing again. After a moment however, he straightens a bit and his voice regains its normal quality and the feeling slides away. "That was very nice of you. Thank you," he says. 

I politely tell him that he is welcome and then I stand back to watch as one of the aforementioned awkward moments descends upon us. 

Mercifully, he breaks it almost immediately. "Well, since I have a suitcase now, and I don't have to speed read the book anymore, I may as well go pack," he says as he sets the book down and stands up in one quick, fluid movement. 

I walk forward and hand him the suitcase. He takes it with another small 'thank you' before turning around to go up the stairs. 

He makes it halfway up the stairs when I call out to him. 

"Draco." 

He stops in mid-step and turns his head. Again, I try to sound casual and offhand . . . and I am well aware that I probably fail miserably. "I thought that . . . you know . . . on our last night we could go get some dinner, maybe catch a film or something." 

"Oh," he says, then pauses as if he's thinking. "Well, there is that new De Niro film that I've been wanting to see . . . " 

I hear his words, I hear them loud and clear, but I can't quite seem to comprehend them. Did he just say that he likes De Niro? He must see something of my confusion on my face, because he narrows his eyes and says, "What?" 

"Nothing . . . it's . . . it's just that it's still a bit disconcerting to hear that you like anything Muggle." 

"Oh," he says and then a small smile spreads across his face. "Then it would really blow your mind to know that I eat Big Macs, listen to U2 and have developed quite an interest in football." 

I blink hard and shake my head in amusement. "You're right. My mind is blown." 

His smile grows wider. "Dinner and a movie sound great, Harry." 

I can't help but smile back. Yes, dinner and a movie do sound pretty good. I'm glad I thought of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the film we end up at the same restaurant where we ate three weeks ago. 

At first we entertain ourselves by discussing plot points and De Niro's acting, but once the food is brought to our table we both begin to eat as if ravenously hungry and conversation all but dies away. 

After a few minutes, however, Draco seems sated enough to put down his utensils and say, "Harry?" 

"Yes?" I manage to respond around a mouthful of salmon.

"There are a couple of things I've been wanting to say to you." 

I swallow, then put down my utensils as well. He sounds so serious and formal; my curiosity is definitely piqued. "Oh, well what are they?" 

He straightens and clasps his hands together on the table, suddenly looking very much like the young aristocrat that he used to be. "I wanted to thank you properly for the other day. When you _bullied_ me into telling you about my mother - which wasn't a very nice thing to do by the way - your reaction was not what I expected . . . " he pauses and looks down at the table briefly before looking back up. "And it was very appreciated. So . . . thank you."

This comes as a complete surprise to me. For some reason I never expected him to be grateful, much less express it. But before I can respond and tell him that he is welcome, a niggling question pops into my head and I feel forced to ask it. "What did you think my reaction was going to be, Draco?"

He unclasps his hands and resumes eating. I do not. "I guess I expected you to laugh or tell me that I deserved it or something. I don't know," he says. 

That disturbs me, perhaps more than it should. "You really thought I'd do that? You thought I'd be that horrible?" 

He gives a half-shrug. "I figured . . . you know . . . kick a man when he's down. That's what most people would do." 

I shake my head. "No, that's not what most people would do."

"I thought you'd gotten over being naive, Harry. That is exactly what most people would do."

At least . . . I think that's what he says, because the truth is I'm no longer really listening. My mind has decided to take a stroll down memory lane and is too busy supplying me with images of Draco sobbing in my arms for me to concentrate on anything else. "I wasn't sure if I was doing it right," I say suddenly. 

Now where did _that_ come from?

"What?" he asks, now sounding thoroughly confused.

I try to wrench my eyes away from the disquieting memory playing out before me, but I can't quite manage it. "You were hurting so much and I wanted to help, but I wasn't . . . it didn't seem to be doing any good." 

I know I'm not making any sense, and since I'm the one who started this by blabbering incoherently, I feel I have to make the effort to explain. "When I was younger, whenever I got hurt, my aunt and uncle would tell me not to be a crybaby and then tell me to go away. Sometimes I'd come home from school crying because someone had been especially cruel that day, and my aunt and uncle would say that I had probably brought it on myself . . . and then they'd tell me to go away." I pause and take a deep breath to steady myself against these old hurts. "But I watched them with Dudley. And I could see how they always held him when he was upset. And it always worked. So that's what I tried to do with you. But you kept on crying anyway. I figured I wasn't doing it right. Since I'd never actually experienced it first-hand, I figured I wasn't doing it right." 

"Harry," he says, all but whispering my name. "You really did have a shitty childhood, didn't you?" 

Thankfully, the playback of memory has ended, but some sense of shame keeps my eyes glued to my plate nonetheless. "I guess."

It is quiet save for the muted conversations of the people around us . . . then . . . "You did it right, Harry." 

At this I do look up, certain that I heard wrong. "But you wouldn't stop crying . . . " 

"Sometimes people just need to cry, I think. And I hadn't ever let myself mourn her . . . not really." He pauses. "You did it right, Harry. You were a natural."

I don't think I can even begin to describe how good those words are making me feel. Knowing that I attempted something normal and that I succeeded at it, makes my heart feel light in my chest. It is a feeling that has happened so infrequently in my life that it is almost unbearably alien. But not quite. I let myself bask in it until I remember there was something else he wanted to say to me. "What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?" I ask as I try to focus on something other than this little moment of bliss.

"Ah yes, well, I wanted to apologize for being such a complete and total bastard all during school." 

"Really?" I ask, shaking off our last conversation enough to attempt a little eyebrow raising of my own. 

"Really. I mean . . . I was awful, I see that now. And I was wrong." 

I sit there motionless for several seconds, just looking at his face - his very earnest, very serious face. Somewhat wistfully I say, "If only you had been _this_ way during school." 

He exhales a laugh. "I know. But I didn't know any better, Harry. I never imagined how badly it hurts when someone judges you on what they think they know about you." 

I'm tempted to ask aloud if this is what people do to him now, but I can see by the sadness in his eyes that it is. 

Draco Malfoy has been completely humbled by what he's experienced over the past two years. I have no doubt in my mind that this is true. And I no longer have any doubt in my mind that this is not the same person that I used to know and despise. 

"I accept your apology," I say quietly. 

"Really?" He asks it as if he doesn't quite believe me.

"Really," I say as I nod in affirmation. 

"You forgive me?" 

I hold up a hand. "That I didn't say."

"Forgiveness is too much to ask for?" he asks harshly.

"Do you forgive me for what I did to you?" I shoot back.

"The beating from hell? Is that what you mean?" 

I give a quick nod. 

"Yes. I do." 

"But why?" 

"Because you truly regret doing it. I can see that. I can see how you've tortured yourself over it. I mean, one of us has to forgive you."

One of us has to forgive me. Both poetic and true, that statement. I still haven't truly forgiven myself for that incident. And it surprises me that he knows I haven't. And although I may want to, I can't bring myself to forgive him for the things he's done either. 

"I think forgiveness is still a little beyond my reach," I finally say.

I wait for his response, looking forward to it actually, but all he says is, "Tuck in, Harry. Your food's getting cold." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

In the car on the way home, I ask him what his plans are and what he'll do with the money. 

He tells me that he told Pete he was only getting 10,000. That with that extra two thousand, he plans to get as far away from this place as possible. He sounds as happy as a child on Christmas when he talks about his future. Then he asks about me. 

"What about me?" 

"What are you going to after this?" 

"Just go back to living my life. What else would I do?" 

"And what a life it is." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

And so we travel the rest of the way in silence. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the house, I trudge up the stairs, feeling inexplicably morose despite what was a relatively good night. I stop outside my door and turn to see that Draco is standing outside of his door and making no move to open it.

I think to myself that this would be the perfect moment for a great speech, something that will sum up all that we've been through and all that we've discovered about each other. 

But all I can muster is a quiet little, "Well, goodnight then."

Draco nods, but still makes no move to open his door. "Harry, since this is our last night together, why don't we sleep in the same bed? For old times' sake?" 

I can hear the smile in his voice and my own smile begins to slide slowly across my face. "My room or yours?" 

"Mine," he says decisively. Then he opens the door and walks inside. 

I follow and enter. He is standing at the side of the bed, already taking off his shirt. I follow suit, draping mine casually over a chair. It's only when I look up that I notice that Draco's not moving any longer. He's standing very still, staring at me with a strange expression on his face. 

"What's the matter?" I whisper. 

"I can't believe that this is over," he says just as quietly. 

I nod, completely understanding, for I feel the same way. "You must be thrilled. That it finally is over, I mean. And that you can go on with your life." 

"Yes. Thrilled." 

But he doesn't sound thrilled and he doesn't look thrilled. He doesn't really sound anything at all. Then with a small intake of breath, he comes back to life and moves toward me until he is standing right in front of me. 

"What?" I say fighting the urge to step back. 

"Your eyes are the greenest eyes I've ever seen. I've never told you this before, but they're beautiful." 

Ok, that did it. He says something like that in that smoky, sleepy voice while he's half-naked and I'm not supposed to react? I am a 19-year-old man after all. I move forward, closing the gap between us, surprising myself by how quickly I do move. One hand cups the back of his head and brings him even closer toward me while the other lands somewhere on his shoulder. When we connect, the kiss is slow and sweet, and I savor how incredibly good he tastes and how soft his hair is against the palm of my hand. 

I prepare myself to be pushed away. Then I tell myself that if I feel any hesitation from him I will simply move away and apologize and slink back to my own bed. 

But he does no such thing. What he does is open his mouth to mine, kissing me with a heated fervor that causes tiny sparks of excitement to run through my skin.

And then, just when it's getting good, just when the sparks have begun to multiply in intensity so that I can no longer even think (where are my hands anyway?) he does pull away. He does it startling quickly, leaving me kissing cold air for just a moment before I realize that he is gone. I open my eyes to see that he has taken a few steps back and his hand is over his mouth. He looks completely stunned. 

"Harry?" he says in wonderment. 

And all I can think is that it's time to apologize because I've hurt him in some way. I pushed too much, crossed a line that I shouldn't have. 

"What?" I say in a hoarse voice. 

"That was . . . that was nice," he says. 

Not what I was expecting to hear. Before I can even begin to think of a response he whispers, "Do it again." 

So I do it again. I bring him to me, kissing him and touching him urgently, bringing back those delicious sparks. 

God, I can't get enough of how he tastes, how he smells, and somehow we're on the bed now (when did that happen?) and I'm staring down at him, looking into his beautiful, strange eyes. 

But only for a moment and then I continue to place sweet, lust-filled, tempered kisses against his skin, while my hands roam over his body. His hands, surprisingly strong, are in my hair, on my back, grasping, as if he can't get enough of me either. 

Another minute passes, and my fingers have unfastened his trousers and are now sliding down into them and reaching under his pants. I wrap my hand around him, his soft, velvet skin, expecting to hear his moan of pleasure. But instead his body goes rigid and still, one hand frozen tightly in my hair. The other hand, which just a moment ago was pressing me close, is now against my chest as if to push me away. 

"What's the matter?" I pant. 

He is just as breathless as I am. "Nothing, it's just . . . " he says. 

"What is it?" I ask as I withdraw my hand and move away from him. 

He releases my hair, looking embarrassed. "This is too much. We're going too fast." 

And without really thinking I yell out the first thing that pops into my head. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"I'm sorry, Harry . . . "

The word _tease_ spirals in my brain, only to be replaced by the word _whore_. "But we've slept together before!" I say indignantly, although what I really want to say is, 'You're a prostitute. There's no such thing as too fast!' 

"This is different!" he says defensively.

I just stare at him, trying to make sense of his words; trying to keep my suddenly blossoming anger in check. 

"If you want it to go back to the way it was before, then fine, I can do that!" And although he doesn't so much yell the words as say them, they seem to me, thunderously loud. 

_Easy, Harry. Calm down. Don't get angry. _

But the all-too familiar tide of anger is already here. 

I push off the bed and turn around, my hands clenched into fists, and try to tell myself that this is not a big deal. 

That I'm getting upset over nothing. 

That I have to breathe and count to ten. 

But nothing works. 

I turn around to face him, to say God knows what else, when I catch sight of his eyes. His eyes tell me clearly what his words do not. They tell me that I have hurt him.

_What the hell am I doing? Hadn't he told me he doesn't enjoy sex? Wasn't I just a few minutes ago worried that I was pushing too far? And now that I have, I'm angry with him? What the hell is my problem?_

And the anger is gone. 

Gone as quickly as it came, it becomes just another infamous Harry Potter mood swing to add to my fucked up history. 

As always after one of these, I feel drained. I stagger over to the bed and hold out one hand. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." 

He takes it and pulls me onto the bed next to him. "It's all right," he says, although the hurt in his eyes has not gone. 

"I'm sorry," I say again. 

"Your mood swings are downright frightening, Harry," he says. 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know." Then he says, "I did like it . . . at first."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yes, I know that. But I said it was all right, remember?"

And then I utter words that I never thought I'd say in my life. But I mean them. I mean every syllable. "You're a good man, Draco." 

"You're a good man too, Harry. Whether you want to believe it or not." He takes a deep breath and runs his hand gently through my hair. "Why don't we get some sleep?"

We move around on the bed, intertwining our bodies until we are both comfortable and then we sleep. 

And I'm still an idiot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The next morning, I awake to find that he is packed and ready to go. I insist on driving him, rather than have him take a taxi, which was his first suggestion.

We don't make any mention of what happened last night. We don't make mention of anything at all actually. What is there to say at this point, really?

When we reach the city, he directs me to a rather gray, worn-down building, not far from where I found him that night, and tells me to stop in front of it. 

"This is where you live?" I say.

"Home, sweet home," he says, his sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

I give the building a last glance and then pull out the check that I wrote out yesterday morning. Twelve thousand pounds, just as we had agreed upon. It's ironic to think that this amount, which is nothing but small change to me, will be enough to change his life. "Well, this is it then," I say, handing it over to him. 

He takes it without even sparing it a glance and folds it neatly, tucking it into his shirt pocket. "Yes, it is." 

Again this would be a perfect time for an all-encompassing speech. But my brain refuses to supply any appropriate words, and the best I can come up with is a lame, "Well . . . take care of yourself, Draco. I hope all goes as you want it to." 

"Thank you, Harry." He holds out his hand and when I grasp it, he gives it a good, firm shake. "It was . . . interesting doing business with you." 

I laugh. "Likewise." 

He lets go of my hand and opens the car door, putting one foot onto the pavement. Then he seems to hesitate, his body half-in, half-out of my car. 

Ducking his head back in the car, he says to me quickly, "One of these days you're going to have to come out hiding and be the man you were born to be, Harry. Hero doesn't have to be a nasty word. Not anymore."

And then he slips out the door, slams it shut and is gone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I come back to an empty, empty house. I stand in it, listening to the silence that seems to cover it like a shroud. 

It's suffocating, this silence. I would rather have a silence that is awkward or uncomfortable or even angry, but this . . . this smothering, suffocating _thing_ is almost overwhelming. 

I try to turn away from the deafening stillness only to have my eyes involuntarily land on the sofa where Draco used to read. 

I turn away from that as well. 

As I walk into the kitchen, I tell myself that I am not missing him. I'm not. It's better this way. Draco was just a brief interlude in my life. And now my life can continue. The way it was meant to. 

Except that . . . 

I stop in the middle of gleaming tiles and look around. 

Except that it wasn't really much of a life, now was it? 

Pushing that thought aside, I take a step toward the refrigerator. Before I can reach it however, I see the place where Draco used to drink his coffee in the morning and I stop cold. Then I see the spot where he used to cook us breakfast and groan loudly. It is very dismaying to find that almost everything down here reminds me of him in some way. And if this is bad, upstairs will be a million times worse. 

Which leads to me the incredible conclusion that I have nowhere to go in my own house. 

I laugh out loud at this, feeling a bit unhinged when my voice breaks the stillness. 

God, do I need some scotch. 

And with Draco gone, I can drink all I want without feeling guilty. How great is that?

So out of the kitchen and to the bar I go. 

The first glass is wonderful - like liquid, fiery heaven sliding down my throat. 

The second one is even better. 

And the third even better than that.

After the sixth one, I stumble up the stairs, bottle in hand, to my bedroom. I am almost to the point of passing out, yes, it's like an exact science, and I want to be in bed when I do. 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I lift the bottle to my lips and spill more liquor down my throat. 

I am not missing Draco Malfoy. Not by any means. 

I like the silence. I like the fact that I can drink all I want without having to worry about anyone. I like that I am alone and that I don't have to try to make conversation with someone. I like the fact that I will have the entire bed to myself tonight, and every night from here on out. 

I am not missing Draco. 

My life was fine before him and it will be fine after him. 

_One of these days you're going to have to come out hiding and be the man you were born to be, Harry. Hero doesn't have to be a nasty word, not anymore_.

And I am not hiding! 

I take another deep swallow. I am now very, very drunk. 

And ok, maybe I am hiding a bit. 

But that doesn't mean that it's a bad thing. Draco doesn't know everything. Look at how screwed up his life is. 

_One of us has to forgive you._

"Get out of my head!" I shout at the voice that keeps interrupting me by repeating Draco's words to me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Draco's life is much more fucked up than mine. And yes, I am hiding but it's all right because it's my choice to do so. And so what if I'm a little hard on myself sometimes? 

And I am not missing him. 

Not his smile, not his sense of humor, not his eyes or his soft skin or the way he always tells me what I need to hear whether I want to hear it or not. 

And most definitely not the way he makes me feel as if I've come back from the dead whenever I'm around him. 

And definitely, definitely, _not_ that stupid eyebrow arching thing.

I take two more large swallows of the scotch. 

"I am going to be in so much pain tomorrow," I say to no one at all. 

I lift the bottle up to take another drink, but it slips from my hand and falls onto the floor. 

"Shit."

I'll have to clean that tomorrow. 

Well, I guess the drinking is over for tonight. 

I let myself flop backward onto the bed then groan as the world begins to spin around me. 

"Not good," I mumble. "Not good . . . far too drunk . . . " 

I lay there for a while, trying to make the world stop spinning and having absolutely no luck. Finally I just decide to enjoy the ride.

But I can't. I'm starting to feel like I'm going to throw up. 

"This ride sucks," I say as I manage a small laugh. 

And that is my last coherent thought before my eyes slide shut and I finally pass out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime in the night, I dream. 

And it's that dream. 

The one where I'm in that horrible cottage surrounded by my dead. 

But something is different, I see that right away. Voldemort is not here. 

Intrigued, I step forward, waiting for the evil bastard to pop out of the shadows so I can strangle him as usual.

But he does not appear. 

I look to my family and friends for answers, but they seem to have none to give. 

I don't know what to do now. What is the purpose of this dream if not to relive the night I killed Voldemort? 

Then my father begins to walk toward me. I stiffen as his mangled body comes closer and closer to mine. 

When he reaches me, he pulls me into a bone-crushing hug and whispers, "I love you." 

"I love you too, dad," I say and I am no longer afraid, for I can feel how much he loves me. I can feel it in every cell in my body. 

When he pulls away, he is no longer the dead thing that walked up to me a moment ago. He is whole and handsome and unblemished. 

I gasp in wonder and reach out for him, but he disappears before I can touch him. 

Before I have time to wonder about what just happened, I see that someone else is walking toward me. It is Sirius. 

He comes to me and repeats what my father just did; holding me tightly and telling me he loves me before disappearing. 

Then the rest come; one by one, they walk to me and embrace me and tell me how much they love me before changing and vanishing. But it's not just that. They let me feel their love for me. And it makes my heart ache, but in a good, good way. 

And finally my mother comes to me. She hugs me silently and when she pulls away from me, I know that I am gazing upon an angel. I have never seen anyone more radiant and beautiful. It almost hurts to look at her. 

"I love you, Harry."

"Mum," I choke out. 

"Don't be sad anymore, Harry. Please. We're at peace now." 

"But I miss you!" 

"But I'm always with you." 

"I can't feel you," I say brokenly. 

"Because you don't allow yourself to feel me."

"Mum," I start to say, but I have to stop because I'm simply crying too hard to continue. The first time I've ever cried, and it's in a dream. Go figure. 

She brushes away one of my tears with her fingers and smiles sadly before looking across the room. I follow her gaze and I see that there is still someone here. Funny, I could have sworn there was no one left. 

"All I want for you is happiness and peace. Do you understand?" 

I turn to tell her that I don't understand, that she needs to explain it to me, but she is gone. Gone like all the others. 

Feeling utterly confused and empty and still crying like a baby, I look back across the room, hoping to see who is standing there. 

"Draco?" I whisper when I finally see. 

"Harry." 

"Why are you here? You're not dead." 

"Aren't I?"

I wipe away the tears on my face angrily. "What? No. You're fine. You're in London. You're about to begin a new life." 

"Then why am I here?" he asks calmly. 

"I don't bloody know!" I shout. 

He takes a few steps toward me, where I can see him more clearly. 

"I'm here because I'm dying," he says. 

I'm about to tell him that he's completely lost his mind when a huge red gash appears on his forearm. Blood begins to pour from it as he flinches slightly. 

"What? What's wrong with you?" 

"Physically, nothing," he says before gashes appear on his cheek and neck. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask in alarm. 

"Physically, nothing." 

Another gash, more blood. Then another, and another. This dream gets more bizarre by the minute. 

"You said that already!" I yell as I run toward him and grab his arm. It is slick from all the blood and my hand slides off it easily. 

"But it's true," he says. 

Oh God, there's blood coming from his ears now. What the hell?

"Soon I'll be nothing but a memory, Harry. And then I'll be dead to you." 

"You don't have to die . . . I don't want you to die," I say. 

But he's already falling and one eye has begun to hemorrhage and there is blood leaking from the corner of his mouth . . . 

I catch him before he hits the floor and cradle him close to me. 

"Don't die," I whisper to him. 

"Don't let me," he whispers. 

"What do I have to do?" I ask frantically. 

But it's too late. I feel his body slump against mine. I look to see that his eyes are closed and that his chest does not rise and fall. 

I bring him close to me and press his head against my chest. 

He's growing cold already.

I think I have begun to cry again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I struggle to pull myself out of the dream and its final, bloody images. It takes a while, this coming up through different layers of consciousness, but finally I open my eyes to the comforting darkness of my bedroom.

I instinctively rub my hands together, expecting them to feel sticky with gore. But they feel normal. There is nothing on them. 

It's at this moment that I notice a strange noise coming from deep within my throat. Some keening, awful sound that I've never made before. Not only that, but I can't quite seem to catch my breath and my chest feels as a huge weight is atop it, crushing it mercilessly. 

What the hell is wrong with me? I reach up with a shaking hand and place it on my throat, feeling the vibrations made by the strange noises. Then I rub my hand over my face - and that's when I feel it. 

Wetness. 

I feel it on my face at the same time that I taste it on my lips. 

Wet. 

Salty.

Oh dear God. 

I'm crying. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don't let me be too late. 

Just please don't let me be too late. 

I've lost track of how many doors I've knocked on and how many strangers have opened them up to me. A sense of desperation has already started to creep up on me as I knock on yet another door and force myself to wait patiently. 

This time when it opens, it is Draco's face that stares back at me. 

_Finally I've found him. _

After driving like a speed demon to London and then like a madman through its streets, after knocking on so many doors that my knuckles are already starting to bruise . . . I have found him. The relief is so strong that it almost drives me to my knees.

His eyes are wide with disbelief. "Harry? What are you . . . "

"I need to talk to you," I interrupt quickly. 

"You came all the way down here to talk to me?"

"Please. It's important. Can I come in?"

He steps back and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm. "By all means." 

I walk inside his flat and take a quick look around. It is small and as shabby on the inside as the building is on the outside. 

"Please excuse the mess. I had to fire the maid." 

But there really is no mess. It is quite tidy, actually. I turn around to tell him so and am met by his mischievous smile.

I smile back. 

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks as he gestures toward a brown well-worn armchair. I sit down, while he takes a chair opposite me. 

"How did you find me?" he asks. 

"I knocked on every door until you opened this one," I reply honestly. 

He looks as if he doesn't quite believe me. "What you have to say must be really important, then." 

"I think so."

He nods and leans forward, waiting for me to begin. But the words stick in my throat. 

"Well?" he says. 

I take a deep breath. Ok. Here goes everything. Make the words come out, Harry. Come on. 

"I quit my job at the Ministry this morning," I say. 

He raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, and I've decided to take a long holiday. I'm going to travel. See the world." 

"This is all very interesting, Harry. Truly. But what does this have to do with me?" 

"I bought two tickets. We leave day after tomorrow for Ireland. If you'll agree to go with me."

There is a pause where there is nothing but stunned silence on his part and patient silence on mine. "Are you serious?" he finally asks. 

I lean back in the chair. "Perfectly." 

"Then you've lost your bloody mind."

"No, I don't think so." 

"Why? Why now? Why this?" 

"I'd like you to come with me, Draco." 

In mere seconds, I see confusion, understanding and pity travel cross his face, one after the other. "Oh God, Harry . . . I don't love you," he says softly. 

"I don't love you either, Draco," I say at once. "God, I just recently started to like you."

Draco gives a minute shake of his head, and I can see the pity is gone, and that it has once again been replaced by confusion. "Well, why then?"

"It's hard to explain." 

He gives an incredulous laugh. "Well, you're going to have to give it a go."

"I had a dream, Draco." 

"I thought that was Martin Luther King's line," he says. 

I take a deep breath and roll my eyes, but there is no rancor in it. "Anyway, this dream helped me to realize something. It helped me to realize that we have something, Draco. I don't know what it is exactly, but there's something here. I think we could be good for each other. At least, I know you can be good for me. You already have been. And I think, in time and with a little patience, I could be good for you also." 

He looks dubious, like he thinks that any moment I will laugh and tell him this has all been a big joke.

I lean forward and speak earnestly. "Look, I'm not asking for a huge commitment here. I just want us to spend some more time together, see what comes from it."

"By traveling the world together?" 

"I thought it would be fun. To see things I've only ever heard about. I thought you might enjoy it as well."

He looks down at the floor and grows silent. I know him well enough to know that he is doing some serious thinking. 

Finally he looks back up and says, "It . . . it can't be the way it was before, Harry . . . with you snapping your fingers, and me running to your bed. I can't be your whore again."

"No! God, no Draco, that's not what I want." 

With exasperation in his voice he asks, "What _do_ you want then?" 

"I just want you there. To be with me. Nothing is expected of you. We can sleep in different beds if you want. Hell, we can sleep in different rooms if you want!" 

Draco temples his fingers together and frowns. "Let me see if I've got this. You want me there, because you think there might possibly be something between us?" 

I nod. 

"But you're not expecting anything. You just want to travel together?" 

I nod again. Redundant I know, but I seem to have run out of words. 

"And if I decide that I no longer want to be your traveling companion, then what?" 

"Then I pay for your way back. Or wherever you want to go. It's that simple." 

"Nothing with you is ever simple, Harry." 

"This is." 

"I don't know . . . " 

"Come on, Draco. You feel it too, don't you? Tell me you do and that I'm not mad." 

But he gives me no answer at all. I stand up. "Or tell me that you don't and I'll walk out of your life right now." 

God, talk about tension. The air is thrumming with it. Waiting for him to decide which path my life is going to take is harder than killing Death Eaters.

He sighs deeply and says, "You're not crazy." 

A thrill of excitement and relief rush through me, making me shiver just slightly. "So then . . . " 

It's now his turn to roll his eyes. "Yes, there is something between us . . . and no, I don't know what it is either." 

"We could figure it out together, Draco." 

"I suppose we could. Or we could run from each other screaming." 

I step directly in front of him and hold out my hand. When he takes it, I pull him up gently until we are eye to eye. 

"Is that a yes or a no?"

He looks away from me, muttering, "This is insane."

I use my free hand to cup his chin and turn his face back to me. "I'm tired of hiding, Draco."

"Harry . . . " 

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," he exhales. 

I laugh, then wrap my arms around him and hold him close and tight. "I am so glad you said that," I say softly in his ear. 

He hugs me back, hard, before he pulls away slightly. His face is terribly serious. "I had a dream about you last night. You were dying, right in front of me. I...I didn't like it." 

His words bring my dream to mind and for a moment I feel sick remembering how he bled to death in front of me. "I should hope not," I manage to say through a suddenly dry throat.

"What do you suppose it means, Harry?" 

I shake my head to dispel the image. The last part of the dream was gruesome and horrible, but it served a purpose. Hopefully it turns out to be a good one. "Nothing. It means nothing. It was just a dream." 

"Harry, I . . . " he begins to say, but goes no further. His mouth continues to move, but no sound is coming from it, as if he wants to speak but doesn't know what to say.

I nod and say, "I know . . . I feel the same way, Draco." 

And then I kiss him. 

And he wraps his arms around me and kisses me back. 

I've always thought that happily ever after was a load of rubbish. Something only found in books and childish fairy tales. But when we pull away from each other, and Draco looks at me and gives me a shy smile, I start to believe in happily ever after. 

But that's not the best part. That's now what brings a smile to my face. The best part is that I start to believe in happily ever after for me. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's notes: Wow! OMG, I feel like I've just given birth! This fic has been hard, and the longer it went the harder it got. So this last chapter was like walking on hot coals, man. (Anyone who writes angst will know what I'm talking about). But anyway, it is finally done. Finally. 

I really want to thank everyone who has read and/or reviewed. I want to thank everyone who has been patient enough to stay with this story - I know the chapters were too far spaced out, but it was the best I could do. 

When I started this fic, my goal was to write a fairly realistic Harry/Draco romance. I soon realized that I wasn't going to make them fall in love with each other in the time I had allotted myself. So this is the next best thing. If anyone is wondering; in my mind, they do stay together and they do fall in love. But let's face it - Harry is way too fucked up to be a good partner right away. And I'm not talking about my Harry. I mean Rowling's Harry. That boy needs some serious counseling. 

Anyway, whether I succeeded in my goal I can't really say. That's up to you as the reader to decide. But I am proud of this story and how it has turned out. And I'm so very grateful to everyone that has joined me on this twisted, little ride. 

  
  
  



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